


what you will

by leedeeloo



Category: TWRP | Tupper Ware Remix Party (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Human AU, Smoking, esteemed commander meouch of the milky way (cat), havve hogan III of the fifthe estate (cat), sung's brother (marcus sung), sung's maman (chelsea sung), sung's mom (julie sung)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 01:06:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14739212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leedeeloo/pseuds/leedeeloo
Summary: Andrew Sung is just a man living his simple life, taking in comforts when he can. He's well prepared to take on the challenges of being the head of customer service, and adopting a new cat, with his closest friend Celia Kim pushing him along. Everything about him, and his life, is simple and normal.Until it isn't.





	1. rudiments

A long weekend, a luxurious four day long weekend, was the perfect time to adopt a new pet. Andrew Sung had been planning this for at least a month. He’d been going to shelters in the city with a discerning eye, waiting to feel that old, familiar spark, that connection, when he saw just the right little face in the cage. Led around by a volunteer to cats that were used to other animals, weren’t in the highest demand, most of them black which was only a threat to his crisp white bed sheets.

It was just the weekend before he’d finally found the perfect cat. A sleek black short hair, with the biggest ears he’d ever seen. Bright green eyes, pupils wide as it watched him. It didn’t make a peep, but it’s little paw went up to the gate of the cage-- grey toe beans, little claws poking out. The cage door opened, it attempted to scale his pant leg, as the volunteer laughed.

“Hogan’s taken a liking to you!”

He got all the paperwork sorted out, agreed to come back that Thursday, before they closed to the public for the long weekend, to pick up his new roommate. He bought a new litter box, bed, all of that throughout the week, keeping it in the car to keep his first cat, Meouch, from laying claim to it, curbing as much jealousy as possible.

He gnawed on the inside of his cheek as he drove home, Celia next to him, flipping through radio channels, cat eerily quiet in a carrier in the back seat.

“So, what’s the plan, Stan?” she asked when they were about five minutes away from his apartment.

“I was thinkin’,” he started as he slowed to a stop at a sign, “I go up first, corral Meouch into my room, make sure he’s not cranky, ply him with treats if he is. Come back down, I’ll take the carrier and you take the litter box, and we let him sniff around the apartment while Meouch raises hell.”

“Oh, making me take all the heavy stuff?”

“That’s not-!” He almost sputtered, looked at her, saw her toothy teasing grin. “He’s my cat, Cee. I wanna carry him.”

She reached over, lightly pinched his cheek. “There’s the sing-song boy.”

“I was not-” he started to defend himself again, ducking his head away, voice going high, into a rocking, sing-songy tone. He huffed out a sigh. “Maybe I should stop signing my emails with that, hey?”

“But then what would you put instead? Mister unsung?” She sounded legitimately perplexed at the mere thought.

“Maybe my name, Celia. Maybe I would sign off my emails with my name, the thing everyone calls me.” He was grinning, letting a fake tension work into his voice, push the pitch up. “Maybe I could stretch it out to sing-song-sung boy, and then it’s just a clear path to shortening it down to Sung! Maybe I could do that, missus computer wife!”

She tsk’d. “You know that’s a well earned title, Andy.” And it was. Kinda of. She was practically married to her job, and she wasn’t so… she was pretty robotic at work, a cool facade keeping her in control and a little intimidating. He made an over exaggerated frown as he turned into the parking lot, Celia shut off the radio as he pulled into his space-- thankfully, no neighbors in the spots beside his.

He clipped his apartment key off the jangling ring of charms, undid his seatbelt. He left the car running as he got out, mumbling, “be back in a bit.”

It was almost a sigh of relief he let out as he approached the walk up. He ran a hand over his cheek, where Celia pinched, and then through his hair-- as much as he could, gel holding it in place. He went up the stairs two at a time, giving his heart a real reason to pound. He was glad she was there. Really. If he was on his own, it would take two trips to bring everything up, and by the time he got in the door he’d be a nervous wreck about leaving this poor new cat on it’s own that they’d both feed off of it and never get along and it would all go awry and--

Sung took a breath in, held it, let it out as he unlocked his door.

He was instantly greeted with needy meowing, and he quickly stepped in and shut the door behind him. Meouch trotted over from the coffee table; a large, fluffy brown haired cat. He was big enough to be a maine coon, but Sung wasn’t sure about his breed. As per their usual routine, he scooped his cat up in his arms, cradling him like a baby, cooing.

“Hello, baby.” His voice was high, sing-songy again. He swayed, hummed, scratched Meouch’s cheeks and squeezed his paws. “Yeah, I missed you too-” He stopped, feeling the paws a little more intently.

They were wet.

Sung’s eyes narrowed, and it was suddenly obvious, the little puddles of water on the coffee table, around the glass goldfish bowl housing a single marimo ball. He’d gotten it (and other houseplants) in an attempt to stave off the urge to get another cat, but it had proved a bit too interesting for Meouch.

“Naughty,” he chastised, pushing Meouch’s nose back and exposing his top teeth. He was purring. “You gotta leave Phobos alone, buddy.” He wasn’t really scolding, voice still high, almost baby-talk. Meouch started biting his finger, grabbing his arm with his paws, squirming but not trying to get away. Sung sashayed into his room, set Meouch on the bed and pulled the blanket over him. The most he’d do would be sticking his nose out, even as he heard the can of wet food open.

Meouch’s litter box was in the en suite bathroom, and he always left a dish of water for him in his room- he’d heard cats preferred their water and food not right next to one another, anyways. Putting his food in there was different, but hopefully Meouch could cope.

Sung dropped the empty can in the trash and wiped his hands off on a dish towel. They weren’t dirty, but it was just a habit. He walked quickly to his room, set the dish of food down nice and far from the water, and gave Meouch a parting rub through the blanket. He slipped out of the room and shut the door, and wasn’t even outside before he serenaded to a chorus of yowls.

He was excited-- worried that the cats wouldn’t get along, but trying to be positive. That worry spiked when he saw that Celia had moved into the backseat, and he tried to wrangle it back down. If something was wrong, she would’ve texted him. Still, once he got closer, he knocked on the window, getting her attention.

She smiled at him, fingers at the grating, tongue sticking out through them.

He sighed before he opened the front passenger door, stretched across the seat and taking the keys out. “Keeping him company?” he asked, voice tight from the slight effort, he assured himself.

“He’s a real licker,” she said before Sung slammed the door shut. He went around to the trunk, and she came out.

“Does he slobber, too?” Sung asked as he opened the trunk, hitting the lock button on the key fob and shoving it in his pocket.

“You tell me,” was the only warning he got before a wet finger was dragged across his cheek, making shriek and jump away.

“Cee! Guh-ROHSS!” Sung jumped to the side, smacking her hand away and clamping his down over his face. He felt his face get hot, a grimace form. He wiped his skin, hard, making further noises of disgust.

She kept laughing as they carried everything up.

Inside, they were greeted with a very sad meow from his room. Celia chuckled, almost cooing empathetically.

Sung’s plan was to let Hogan out of the carrier and let him inspect the apartment while Sung followed his usual routine. He didn’t want to hover, make him nervous. Having Celia over, or any company, really, wasn’t his usual routine, but it wasn’t completely unusual, and it would help keep Sung’s anxiety down.

Once they’d set up the litter box and stationed it under the living room window, far enough away from the other one and the kitchen, Hogan still hadn’t ventured out of the carrier. Celia was on the edge of a couch cushion, an arm folded across her waist, grabbing the elbow of her other arm, hand at her face, nail tapping against her teeth. She was smudging what was left of her lipstick.

“Maybe he’s worried sick,” she mused.

Sung looked over his shoulder from reaching up into the kitchen cupboard. Hogan was just sitting in his carrier. He didn’t look bothered at all; he had an underbite, which rendered him a little goofy looking, but this wasn’t a stressed cat.

“He’s fine,” Sung said, pulling down items. “He’s just… a little slow, is all.”

She seemed to be pouting, and it was punctuated by a few scratches from the inside of Sung’s bedroom.

“Wait,” she said as soon as Sung opened the cupboard he kept his pots and pans in, the ones hanging on the door clanging softly. “Are you making dinner?”

“Yes?” Sung answered. “I want him to get used to my routine. I always cook dinner.”

“Aw, Sungy, no! I was gonna buy dinner! Now I owe you!”

He smiled, shaking his head, turned on the stove. “It’s fine, we’re even. You’re already helping me out.”

“But I’m gonna spend the night.”

Sung froze, held his breath. “That’s news to me.”

“Remember?” Celia was frowning, a perfect semi-circle. “You said you were worried about leaving for a while to take someone home and leaving the cats by themselves? So I was the best person to ask? Because I’ve stayed here before and never complain about the pullout?”

“No-oooo,” Sung replied, trying to keep cooking. Oil and heat and spinach and something else, he couldn’t remember what food he had. “You live, like, a five minute drive away, so I wouldn’t have to leave the cats for very long.”

“Oh,” she said simply. Her hands were wrapped around her thighs, sitting on them. “Then, I guess, after dinner-”

“You can stay,” Sung cut her off. “It’s fine. I didn’t have any other plans, it’s no trouble.” He looked her in the eye as best he could over the distance, smiled. “You’ll just treat us to breakfast tomorrow.”

Her shoulders pulled up, at there it was- a tight smile, the well of happy tears threatening to overflow. “Oh, Andy!” She stood, started making her way over to him, arms open for a hug, but then stopped suddenly, wobbling backwards, her path interrupted.

“Oh!” they both exclaimed.

Over the course of their misunderstanding, Hogan had ventured out of his carrier. Celia took a step back, hands in the air, looking from the cat to Sung, grins spreading across both their faces.

“Don’t be weird!” Sung commanded. “Just, let him be, come hug me like you were going to, and tell me what you want for dinner.”

Gleefully, she bounded over, pulling him into a tight embrace, his head against her shoulder.

* * *

 

It wasn’t until after dinner that he finally got a moment alone. He went to his room, Celia to the full bathroom down the hall, both finally changing out of their work clothes. He tried not to be too hard on himself for not noticing she had an overnight bag, but he felt pretty oblivious.

As soon as he was in his room, Meouch was very angrily all over him. And then very angrily lying on top of the clothes he took off and tossed on the bed, purring while staring down Sung. He scratched Meouch’s cheeks and chin, kept repeating “I know.” Once he was dressed, he scooped Meouch up, close to his chest, bouncing a little.

“If you promise to make a good first impression,” Sung whispered, “I’ll let you meet him sooner.”

Meouch chirped.

“He’s outside the door,” Celia said, voice muffled through the wall. “He’s sniffling at the gap.”

Sung put Meouch down in front of the door, and he blessedly stayed put. Sung grabbed the door knob and cautiously cracked the door open, just a hair. He grabbed his wrist, trying to keep his hand from shaking. The knob steadied under his palm, Celia grabbing it from the other side.

He held his breath, listening to the small sniffs. Meouch put his paw on the door, not scratching, and meowed. Light, and high, and needy.

Hogan meowed back, and it was the first time Sung had heard it. Lower, with a sort of warble to it. He was far more curt than Meouch was.

“Should we open the door?” Celia asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Sung answered. Making the choice for them, Meouch made the tiniest sigh, and turned and left, disinterested.

Sung looked up, just catching Celia’s gaze through the sliver of space before they shut the door.

He pressed his palms against his face, listened to her slow steps on the other side of the door as she followed the cat.

Those same kind of interactions continued throughout the evening. Celia insisted on unfolding the pullout couch, with Hogan underfoot the entire time. They took turns slipping into Sung’s room, assuring Meouch that they hadn’t forgotten about him. It was when it was Celia’s turn to do that, that Hogan came and curled up on Sung. His legs crossed, trying not to hunch over, movie paused and frozen on his laptop.

He and Celia hadn’t really been paying attention to the movie, it was something they’d both seen before. They were tossing names back and forth, if the cats should meet face to face while she was still there, or to give them more time to adjust.

He scratched the back of Hogan’s head, thumb and middle finger under his ears, making them flap like wings. He fit right into the gap of Sung’s crossed legs, eyes shut, tongue sticking out.

A deep purr, not the kind of loud that would be picked up on a phone camera, but there was no denying it. Like there was no denying the drops of spit that started falling from Hogan’s mouth onto Sung’s knee. He made and ‘eugh’ noise, and brought his hand under the cat’s chin, cupping it and catching all the drool.

Celia came out of his room, taking longer than he did with far more negotiation; she was chanting “no no no no” and pleading “sweetie, no, c’mon” until there was a grunt of effort, followed by the distinct noise of a 20 pound cat being tossed on a bed and a door clicking shut. She appeared back into the living room, and reclaimed her spot, wrapped up entirely in a blanket.

“Uhm,” Sung started. “You gotta hit play.” She looked over, saw how he was occupied with very important business, smiled, and untangled an arm, clicking play.

Almost instantly, Celia started a conversation, the movie background noise again. “You gonna give him a full name like Meouch?”

“Of course.” Knowing he was being talked about, Hogan wriggled away from Sung’s grasp and stalked off, Sung running his hand down his full body as he left. “I do like the titles you came up with, but I think he needs something more than _just_ Hogan, you know?”

She nodded. “Yeah, it sounds kinda last name-y.”

They fell into a silence, Celia because she was thinking, Sung because he was acutely aware he had a handful of cat spit.

“Maybe another title-”

“Hey, could you give me your arm for a sec?”

Surprised, but she held her arm out, palm up.

He smacked his palm on her wrist, smeared the spit up towards her elbow. She made a horrific gasping noise, started to yank her arm back, but he held firm, chortling.

“AHNDEE,” she hollered, “GUH-ROHSS!”


	2. unheralded

“Dude.”

“Dude?”

It was a standard way for their calls to start. Sung had gotten in the habit of video calling his brother, Marcus, about once a week. When they both moved out of their parents’ home and went to opposite sides of the country, they’d make phone calls to one another daily. Over the years the frequency slowed, but now Andrew was glad he got to see his family without having to take time off and traverse most of the country. 

“Dude,” Sung repeated. “I think this cat has like, brain damage.” He was holding his phone out, stepping backwards out of his kitchen, trying to find Hogan in the living room. He kept turning until his back was to the diner table, glass jar with the marimo ball in it, Hogan laying down next to it, licking the glass. “See?”

“I dunno, man,” Marcus’ voice was just a little staticy over the connection. He was outside, mid-day for him, and had sunglasses on, so Sung couldn’t quite read his expression. “That seems like a normal cat thing.”

“No, look, see, he’ll do this for a minute, right, and then-” he stopped speaking as Hogan stopped licking, eyes wide and staring at nothing. He dropped his voice to a stage whisper, “and then that! Like I grabbed him by the scruff, but _nothing_ is touching him. He keeps freezing like that, and when he does move it’s super slow.”

Marcus hummed, still skeptical. 

“Also, like, I don’t think he’s aware there’s another cat in here.”

“How the fuck-” Marcus started, something finally getting his attention, “didn’t you say the other cat was pickin’ fights with him?”

“Yeah, Meouch even got some hits in.” Sung walked aimlessly through his living room, scooped Hogan off the table and dropped him to the floor. The cat took a few steps and rolled over, exposing his belly.

“I think I could figure out there was someone else around if they were hitting me.” He was completely incredulous. Sung shook his head, trying not to smile with the pre-pride of proving his older brother wrong. He sat down on the ground, right in Hogan’s line of sight as he stared into the distance, unblinking. Sung raised his hand, making sure Marcus could see.

“Dude, not this cat. Lookit.” With that, he patted Hogan right in the center of the chest, a quick tap, that one would expect a cat to react to, maybe grab the hand that just patted it.

Hogan stayed completely still, paws curled, staring into the middle distance. 

Sung patted him again, on the belly; normally, a cat would detest being touched there, and would react with anything from lashing out or getting up and leaving.

Not Hogan. 

Hogan didn’t seem to react at all, not even blink. 

“Holy shit.”

“Meouch gave up because you cannot pick a fight with a rock.”

* * *

 

It was his last task of the long weekend. Yellow light coming in through the windows, an old comfy sweater on and pushed up to his elbows, glasses on instead of contacts to give his eyes a rest. He had just mopped, so he was walking around barefoot, slippers in the wash. Everything was cleaned and ready to start the week, mind and home fresh.

He poured out about three quarters of Phobos’ tank of water before reaching in and taking out the moss ball. He knew he was being overly delicate with it, but, since he’d kind of rushed into purchasing it, he didn’t fully know how to care for it. He was still nervous about handling it even though everything he’d looked up said it was fine. 

The only reason to worry about Meouch trying to get at it was that he might knock over the bowl. 

He leaned against the counter, holding the marimo under a steady stream from the tap, goldfish bowl under his hands and collecting the run-off.

“You’re good, yeah?” he mumbled to himself, turning it over, not sure what he would be looking for if anything was wrong. “Yeah, you’re alright, Phobos.”

He turned his head, looked out the kitchen window. It was West facing, the light pouring in almost blinding at this time of day. But he didn’t squint, didn’t flinch. He felt warm, calm. Everything was right, everything was normal. Somebody’s claws were tearing up a scratching post, he could hear careful tapping paws of someone walking on the bathtub ledge. 

All of a sudden he was blinking back tears. A smile stretched across his face and he got the urge to cry. Everything was perfect and quiet, and that made something bubble up in him and push out tears. He shrugged his shoulder up, wiped the few errant tears away, knocking his glasses down his nose. He stood up straight, rolled his shoulders. Another urge, something else he really couldn’t explain, and he brought the marimo ball close to his face, a hair away from his lips. Shut his eyes, made a soft mock kissing noise. Not pressing his lips to it, not really giving it a kiss, but close enough. 

It was in his care, he loved it, it made perfect sense that he could kiss it. 

The goldfish bowl was filled most of the way, so he set the ball back in, swirled the water as he pulled his hand out. Made a mental note to get something bigger, Phobos would appreciate that. 

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, watching the moss ball roll around in the water, “I’ll take care of you.”

* * *

 

Hogan didn’t take long to get adjusted, and the vet said he was a dream to work with. Still, Sung worried, gnawing on his thumb whenever he got lost in his thoughts. Worried that something really was wrong with this new cat, that one or both of them would suddenly snap and start fighting, that the tap water was going to turn rotten and kill all his plants, the company would suddenly go under and he’d be forced to start over somewhere else at the bottom of the ladder, getting yelled at as much as he was now but with no power to do anything about it.

_ Idle hands are the devil’s workshop _ he told himself, unsure if that actually was the correct saying.  _ Idle hands _ he kept thinking, working his together, fingers drumming all through the  work day, humming between calls, e-mails, scribbling in his notebook, hastily drawn scales and notes and little kernels of songs.  _ Idle idle idle _ he kept repeating until he could get home, get all the obligations out of the way, everything settled, and he could sit at his piano and finally play, finally make something.

It was a used upright piano, left in the apartment by the previous occupant, and at least 20 percent of the reason he wasn’t trying to move to a nicer place. He’d gotten it all repaired and tuned and cleaned, and wasn’t looking forward to trying to get it down the stairs any time soon, which was probably why it stayed behind. He’d dragged his feet on doing anything with it at first, wondering how he could get rid of it, he had a perfectly good electronic keyboard, why bother with this old piece of--

Sitting at it was comforting. The rich warm tones of a real piano, hitting keys and writing down the notes when something sounded right, playing something out in full and bothering the neighbors; it made him feel like a real musician. It was in a completely different league to being curled over a keyboard, headphones plugged in, like some kid doing this instead of his math homework. 

As soon as he sat down, the cats were all over him. Meouch bouncing from his lap to the keys to the top of the piano, Sung tsking and pulling him back to his lap once he so much as looked at the goldfish bowl. Hogan leapt from the floor to Sung’s shoulders, put a paw on his head and had the first thought since he arrived, to maybe not. He tried to play, cats demanding his attention and body heat. The melody he plunked out was mostly the one he had running through his mind, a few discordant notes as Meouch batted at the keys, a resounding conclusion as he hopped up on them again. 

Both cats hopped down onto the bench, and he took his hands off the keys, placed one on each cat, scratching. 

Finally, they calmed down. A large purring mass lying a couple inches away, too much fur to be against his thigh, and Hogan crawled onto his lap, a dark silky loaf. 

He took his hands off them, held them in the air, waiting.

Purring, snoring.

His fingertips touched the keys, just a tapping noise. 

Stillness.

A measure of music, testing.

Meouch sighed. Hogan was statue still as always.

He started playing, trying out those kernels he’d penned earlier, writing them down on the blank sheet music if it pleased him. He was careful not to lean too far forward, stretching his arms out instead, sliding himself forward on the bench. 

It didn’t take much for him to lose track of time like this. The cats napped, shifting just how much they were on him, Hogan only adjusting by turning in circles, clockwise. He’d turned from 10 to 4 by the time Sung clicked back into the world, a breath out and blinking as if he’d forgotten to do such things.

Looking up, getting out of his haze, trying to focus on the marimo ball but it stayed blurry. Sung squinted, trying to discern if it was his contacts, or if the glass was smudged. He rubbed his eye, forcing tears, maybe it was the water. He was sure his contacts weren’t expired, he’d just picked up new ones yesterday. He started flicking through a flurry of possibilities, each of them getting less plausible, and then the marimo ball started floating.

“Oh, Phobos, no,” he mumbled. It had gotten sick. Could these things get sick? They weren’t supposed to float like that, he was sure. It had felt the same weight as always when he changed the water the other day, maybe that was it. Something wrong with his water, now something Phobos needed was gone, or something it didn’t was added, and Sung was the proud owner of a hollow marimo ball, the innards decayed or eaten or--

It reached the top of the water, bobbing like a beach ball, and then fell open in sections like a chocolate orange.

Sung mouthed the word ‘what,' his voice suddenly gone.

A tiny light, like a single LED, nestled right in the middle. Brighter than anything he’d ever seen, but it didn’t hurt his eyes. The light stretched up, growing, into this oblong, cocoon kind of shape. His ears popped.

As tall as the marimo ball, round child-like body or a cherub, butterfly-esque wings, a little blue fairy stood in the moss as Sung’s mouth fell open.

_ hello!  _ A voice echoed in his head. Light and tinkling, like-- well, like a fairy, and Sung just stared.  _ i am phobos, the spirit residing in this humble marimo. your love has shook me to my core, and i have awakened because of it! _

“Shut the front door,” he whispered.


	3. buckwild

It was a good day. The kind of day that had Sung springing into work a bright and cheery 20 minutes early, having quickly wolfed down his breakfast that morning. People noticed his humming as he brewed coffee; not that he was usually in a bad mood, but cheerful wasn’t a common adjective for him. Not this early in the morning.

He had excitement humming beneath his skin, but he reeled it in, waited until about mid-morning to send Celia an email. Not so early that she’d think something awful came up, but not so late that it was last minute, and she’d think something awful came up. Perfectly timed, concise and friendly:

_ Celia, _ __   
_ You free for lunch today? I have something absolutely buckwild to tell you. _ _   
_ __ Sing-song boy

As soon as he sent it, he forgot about it, her reply startling him when it came a few minutes later. 

Succinct as always, she sent him back a thumbs up emoji, didn’t even sign it.

This unbridled joy led him to her office, just a minute before their breaks started. It wasn’t exactly an office; they worked in an  _ open air environment _ with as few walls as possible, so she was situated in a glass cubicle. He knocked on the glass and she didn’t acknowledge him until she stood up, precisely on time, turned, and raised her eyebrows. 

“Andrew,” she said, her voice cool, tone detached, “you’re early.”

He shrugged. “I told you. It’s buckwild, I rushed right over.”

She kept the same professional smile up until they were seated, a crowded pho place a short walk away from work, and then she broke out in a grin.

“Andy,” she started, slapping her hand on the table, “I have been dying since you sent that email! I almost marched over there to ask you about it!”

“You don’t look like you’ve been dying.”

“Stop it,” she dipped back into her work voice. “Just tell me.”

“Okay,” he started, “so,” leaning back in his chair, grabbing the napkins, the seasonings and sauces on the table, anything to fidget with, “I’ve, like, not been in a slump or anything, but it’s been awhile since I’ve sat down and written new music, right? What with getting all distracted with Hogan and all the planning with that, and, also, getting him all settled in and stuff. 

“So, I finally got some time to sit down, and both the cats are with me, and I’m just like, in the zone, right? Like, I lost track of time just at my piano and writing and I was just so in the moment, that I didn’t notice-- you know Phobos? The little Japanese moss ball I picked up a while ago?”

Celia nodded, cut in, “you had it at the office for a while before bringing it home.”

“Yeah! Yeah, yeah, so, that. I move it’s tank around my apartment ‘cause, like, I’unno, I wouldn’t wanna stay in the same spot all the time.”

His story waned as the waiter appeared and they hastily made orders, Sung’s tale distracting them from ever looking at the menus. He spun a pair of disposable chopsticks between his fingers as he continued. 

“So, like, the marimo ball.”

“The marimo ball,” Celia repeated.

“I’m having a great time, I’m in the zone, and it started floating to the top of the tank. I had it like, on top of my piano, and I was worried the like, vibrations or something were messing it up. It kept going, and it hit the top of the water, and, Cee, it opened right up, like one of those chocolate oranges.

“It cracked itself open and I was like ‘oh my god I’ve killed it’ but then an honest to God fairy popped out! Like,” he held his hands up, one over the other, palms about two inches apart, “like, that big? And blue, and glowing. Like, classic storybook fairy, Cee.

“An’ then it gives me this whole speech! That it’s the spirit living in the marimo, which I guess makes it Phobos, and that all the love I feel, like, awakened it. Like, cause I was changing it’s water that day, and, cause of the cats, I guess, and--” Sung stopped himself, pretended to need to swallow-- “an’ I called my brother, too, and I guess other stuff like that did it.”

Sung waved his hand, shook his head, looked over his shoulder for their waiter, their food. “But, yeah. It uh, said I’m some great well of love? And that it’s been absorbing that from me, like, passively, and this’ll make it grow, and that’s all I really need to do to take care of it, but the fresh water helps.”

“Oh, wow,” Celia sighed. Sung shrugged. “That’s really amazing, you know.”

“Is it?” he asked, perking up.

“Uh-huh.” Just at that moment, their food arrived, and again they paused their conversation, Andrew finally getting to break apart his chopsticks. 

He waited for her to continue.

“You’ve never really been into, like, narrative music, but I think you’ve got a really interesting story to play with there!” She looked him in the eye, smiled. “You had me going, you know, I just about believed it.”

_ Ah _ , Sung realized,  _ If I’m not making this up, she has to admit I’m crazy _ . He smiled. Nodded. Stared into his noodles as he talked. “You really think so?”

“Absolutely! You always say you’re no good at storytelling, but that was great!” She seemed earnest with her praise, and Sung soaked it up.

“You think maybe I should keep it all original, or sample some stuff?”

That lit a spark in her eye. It was something Celia brought up shyly, cautiously, about a year into their friendship, a fiercely guarded secret. She loved to remix songs, and TV shows, and movies, and every piece of media with sound she could get her hands on. They always came out as these eclectic songs that Sung had never heard anything like, ranging from just twenty seconds long to almost ten minutes. 

She leaned across the table conspiratorially, as if they were trading state secrets. He saw her change her grip on her fork, fighting the urge to reach across the table and grab his hand. “I think,” she said, “I’ve been getting into old school sci-fi, and there’s some clips that would go along perfectly with this.”

He gleefully leapt into this conversation, the fantastical potential of reality more than enough, enough that he could pretend this was as outrageous as things got, falling into the fantasy that his life remained perfectly normal.

* * *

 

As blasé as he had been with his brother, Sung did have some genuine concerns with Hogan; and, if they didn’t turn out to be baseless, the shelter for not mentioning anything to him. He’d taken Hogan to his usual vet primarily to get him used to it, give them all his paperwork and get him in their systems, but also because he was deeply, deeply afraid there was something wrong with this cat, and he wanted to get every test possible done to quiet this worry. It wasn’t like his usual anxieties, where he knew he was being ridiculous and picturing worst-case scenarios piling on top of one another; it persisted, a sickening churning in his gut, he could tangle his fingers in it, get caught up in just how plausible it was.

The tests came back slowly. Blood and urine ones were back first, mere days after being done. Nothing to worry about in those, but he was told to keep an eye on him; his blood pressure was normal during the exam, and they wanted to make sure he was just calm, not that it was low and that a normal reading meant high for him. Sung waited a couple weeks for the other tests to come back, the big ones, the x-ray and the CT, chewed all the skin off his lips, picked and picked at his nails until it was fruitless. The smaller ones, the vet mailed to him; these, however, necessitated Sung going into the office. 

On his lunch break, after the receptionist, his vet, both insisting the cat need not to be present, he went into the office. 

He had his arms crossed low, along his hips, leaning forward in the creaky chair. It was a small office, separate from the one animals were seen in, just for meetings like this. It felt just like the office for a human doctor, even with the lack of an examination table.

“Give it to me straight, doc.”

“Your cat is just fine, Mr. Sung.”

He sat up straight. Something like relief came over him, but there was still this inkling of doubt in his mind. “Really? But he’s, like--”

“--Yes, I know. We’ve seen, we’ve read your e-mails. But all the tests show that there’s nothing wrong with him. Your cat is fine, just a little odd.”

“Well,” Sung slumped back in his seat, “could I get that in writing, then?”

The vet raised an eyebrow. “You… Like, a doctor’s note?”

“Yeah.” Sung nodded.

Neither of them made a move.

“Please just officially diagnose my cat as a dumbass.”

After a nice hearty laugh, the vet did just that, proudly showing it to the receptionist, who just as proudly made a photocopy. 

Once he got back to work, he had just enough time left during his break to scan it in. That was the end of that, until the next morning when he was surreptitiously printing something, Celia hot on his heels to see what it was. He made her come up beside him, didn’t hold it up for all to see, made her hold in her giggles at a lovingly crafted  _ Certificate of Mastery In Dumbassery _ , signed by the vet, awarded to Havve Hogan III of the fifth estate. 


	4. portent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smoking and drug mentions in this chapter

The elevator was broken.

Sung sighed, trudged slowly up the five flights of stairs to his friend Bellamy’s apartment. He hadn’t told him he was coming, of course, but Sung knew he’d be home. The knock on the apartment door was his only warning.

The door flew open, pulling air in, a breeze. Bellamy’s hair blew back, long and black, normally pulled back but today he seemingly let it out to its full wild potential. He smiled, just a little, creases around his dark eyes and warmth beaming out of his square jaw, seeing Sung there.

“BT,” Sung said; his first and middle initial. They both reached out, pulled into a hug.

“Mr. Andrew Sung!” He was excited at the sudden visit. Leaned back, his hands on Sung’s shoulders, looking him up and down. “What brings you to this corner of the world!”

Out of his pocket, Sung held it up between them; a usb drive with a pretty water-marble pattern on it. “I finished up some new music, thought you’d like to take a listen.”

Bellamy plucked it out of his fingers, stepped back into the apartment, his living room. “Nice, nice,” he mumbled. Looked back at Sung. “Hey, y’wanna come in, have some coffee? Or are you busy, Mr. Sung?”

Sung smiled, nodded. “I’d love to, man.”

Stepping into the apartment immediately enveloped Sung in a smell of dirt and paint; it was hard to tell if there were more plants strewn about or paintings on the wall. The paintings were all manner of sizes, canvases and paper and prints, arranged in a kind of mosaic across the walls, filling every possible space. The plants were on tables and shelves, hanging from the ceiling. He had an out of style entertainment system, cupboards surrounding a space for a TV, doors of the cupboards removed and plants where a television and anything else should be, taking over.

It was hard to tell what was new.

Bellamy looped around the wall in the middle of the space, separating the living room from the kitchen, after shutting the front door. Right next to the kitchen was the glass sliding door out to the balcony, and it was wide open. Dining room table half inside, and half out on the balcony, chairs evenly shared between the spaces and an ashtray sat on the outside half. Sung took one of the chairs on the inside, while Bellamy grabbed mugs from the cabinet, coffee maker burbling.

He tied his hair back with an elastic around his wrist, leaned against the counter.

“You like it black, right?”

“When I’m doing stuff, yeah,” Sung said, “Please just give me coffee flavoured milk.”

Bellamy nodded, made this little half step to the fridge, yanked the door open and twisted his body into it, like it took all his strength to do. That wouldn’t be a surprise; he was tall and lanky, what someone might delicately call wirey. He had a motley of tattoos on his arms, none of them connected ideas, certainly not a sleeve. Sung knew he had more. He knew Bellamy had a pitiful little keyboard on his shoulder blade, because Sung had poked it into his skin himself.

They’d become friends when Sung first moved to the city, when he was a little more wild, a little more impulsive.

_Maybe_ , Sung thought, maybe he could tell BT about Phobos. Maybe he knew about it already; he’d gotten the marimo from a little shop Bellamy didn’t so much as recommend but insist Andrew purchase it from.

Being handed a mug of barely browned milk, and he considered to possibility that, since such astounding things could happen, someone he knew could have a direct link to those kinds of things. He held the mug in his hands, watched Bellamy set down his, spin and sit in the chair on the patio, and light up a smoke.

“So, you tell that girl you like her yet?”

“Do not,” Sung said a little too enthusiastically in an attempt to cover up his sudden sputter. Bellamy grinned and didn’t say anything, like he was waiting for a response. “We’re not doing this, man.”

“I’m not doing anything!” Bellamy insisted, hands up and palms out. He slouched back in his chair, wrapped a hand around his mug. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” Sung retorted, taking a bitter sip.

“It just so happens that the conversation I’m making--”

“Don’t,” Sung cut in.

Bellamy ignored the interruption.

“--The conversation I’m making is about that girl you’ve been crushing on for years now.” He shrugged, took a drag, casual and frank as anything. He got this funny grimace on his face from failing to keep the smoke in while he smiled. He gave it up, coughed, and grinned, all tooth and bite.

Sung groaned, and laid his head down on the table, hand still clutching mug. Bellamy let him be petulant, until Andrew’s hand slid across the table and made a gimmie-gimmie motion, face still against the tabletop.

“Nuh-uh.” He held the cigarette further away, further outside. “It’s a non-smoking apartment, man. You’ve gotta come out here if you want it.”

A few grumbles, and Sung got up. He left the mug on the table, and leaned against the balcony once Bellamy handed the smoke to him.

The smoke burned his throat as soon as it hit his mouth; he really wasn’t used to it anymore, but he wasn’t about to start coughing and have Bellamy on him for that, too.

Besides, he had something to ask about.

“So,” Sung started, smoke flowing instantly out of his mouth. “That marimo I got…”

Bellamy sat up, a grin. “Oh? You get it from my guy?”

Sung nodded, passing the cigarette back as he took on that smile. “Yeah! I was gonna ask about that, actually.” He rubbed his chin, then the back of his neck. “Just, like, if you know if he sells, like-- if the ones he sells are, like--” Sung shrugged, unsure how to phrase _does your guy sell fairies_ in a way that didn’t sound quite so absurd. “Like, y’know… special ones.”

“Seriously?”

“Serious.”

Bellamy leaned back, shook his head. “C’mon, man. You know I quit that shit.”

Sung felt his face go red, and he looked away, out at the view of the apartment across the street. Of course Bellamy would think that. Of course he wouldn’t think _special plants_ had anything to do with a _love fairy_.

“...Yeah,” Sung said slowly. “Yeah, I know. Sorry, just-- just checking, you know I just--”

“You worry,” Bellamy cut in. He leaned forward, hand on the edge of his chair between his legs, coming in under Sung’s face and looking up at him. “I get it, mister. It’s what you do.” He took a drag, quick and light, barely touching the filter to his lips, and then held it out to Andrew, offering.

He took it, let the smoke flow over every millimeter of his mouth, trickle down his throat and bounce back up in a rough, sudden, coughing fit.

* * *

 

There was no rhyme or reason as to why he looked up when he did; he was in the middle of typing a sentence, he was pretty good at ignoring motion in the office. But he glanced up, and there was Celia.

Not heading for him, but standing behind someone else, someone else’s desk, bending and pointing at their screen.

He narrowed his eyes as if that would make him hear better, wondering what she needed with the customer service team but not with him, the team head.

She was gesturing, talking, and then it happened. Tucked her hair behind her ear, that dark brown that caught the light like a prism would, easing into a bold pink at the tips, now curled perfectly behind her ear. Not even grazed with her fingers, was a cartilage piercing; a simple steel barbell. It made him smile.

When she first got it, it was this big event, a big secret. She’d pulled him out of the office as soon as he’d gotten there, back into the elevator because she didn’t trust the hallway. Her finger to her lips as she told him not to tell anyone, not a soul about this, and he still remembered the way his heart leap up into his throat. She tucked her hair behind her ear, back then it was all mostly brown, save for the black roots, with a delicateness. A brand new piercing, a helix, she said excitedly, and her ear was red and likely tender, given the way she sucked in a breath when she pulled her hair back over it. She grinned at him, bold and goofy, hand covering her mouth as the elevator doors opened. Told him in a low voice that she felt like such a _teenager_ as they walked out.

Now, she left her hair tucked, uncaring as to whom saw that earing or the other two on her lobe.

It was a slow but steady shift, from how she altered her iron tight grip on her image, let the curtain pull back a little. Not that she’d completely let go of it over the years, but she’d settled on something a little more comfortable. Learned what kind of persona she wanted to have, the image she wanted to cultivate.

She stood up straight, still talking, flicked her hair back over her ear and smoothed it back down. Nodded, and gave that cool smile in a bright lipstick.

The same way Sung just so happened to glance up, she glanced over, at him. Frozen, for a moment, and then that smile morphed. To something a little bigger, more genuine joy pushing the corners of her lips up, little creases under her eyes.

And he couldn’t help it, the way his mouth pulled up one sided, a cocky smirk, crooked tooth exposed. She turned away, and it settled, still a smile, but it settled.

He rolled his shoulders, a new-found apathy to the e-mail he just received, accusing him of being a cockbite.

* * *

 

The rest of his day was a blissful tail-end to that moment. It was so little, so inconsequential, he knew that, but knowing didn’t stop how he felt.

He all but floated all the way home, up the stairs, twirling into his apartment.

“I’m home!” he called out as soon as the door was shut, knowing he’d get no answer but meows.

_welcome home_ came the reply, just as excited, followed by the chorus of mewling, a cat thumping down from a counter.

“Thank you,” Sung replied, taken aback. He shuffled out of his shoes, leaving them neatly on the mat. He put on the slippers left just a little further inside, a reversal of the routine he did in the morning. He gave a little wave to the marimo sitting on the coffee table as he made a b-line to the kitchen just to place his lunch box on top of the fridge, and then to the bathroom.

Meouch followed him instantly, rubbing against his legs and standing up and pawing at them as Sung washed his hands. He made comforting noises as he took out his contact lenses, carefully putting them away in the case. He washed his hands again before bending down to pick up Meouch and make the slow, half-blind walk to his room.

Hogan was curled up on on of his pillows, and once he dropped Meouch on the bed, he was as well. They watched him stand in front of his dresser, hem and haw over what to wear for the evening. He heard one of them start licking the other, and smiled; he didn’t expect them to become so close.

He was careful as he undressed. The buttons of his shirt weren’t circular, but little pentagons, matching the pattern of the shirt; that same shape, in different sizes and primary colours on a black background. The buttons were the only reason he didn’t wear a tie, which was normally a must for him with the short sleeves. He’d actually worn jeans that day, which was normal for the rest of the office, but felt strange for him. They were thrifted, and painstakingly dyed back to what he assumed was the original rich black and gold thread replacing the original black top stitching.

His work clothes were folded, and placed in the dirty laundry hamper. Sung couldn’t stand ironing, so he did all he could to avoid it.

He stood over the open drawer, hands on hips. As way of procrastination, he stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders. While bending over to touch his toes, he pulled his undershirt off, and tossed it into the hamper upon standing.

He let his hand graze over the different folded fabrics until he touched something pleasing. He pulled it out of the drawer and onto his body without looking; decadently soft on the inside, a little smoother on the outside, a deep kind of mossy green with the collar cut off and neckline wide, new elastic sewn into the cuffs once the sleeves were too stretched out to push up anymore. Drawer shut, and the one below it opened, sweatpants picked with much less thought put in. A dark stoney grey, altered as well; cut to mid-calf, elastic added at the new hem and pushed up around his knees.

Finally the glasses, finally his sight back. Folded on top of the dresser, big clear frames. He had a pair at work that didn’t make him look so bug-eyed. These didn’t press on his nose, however, and helped him leave his serious side at work.

Scooping Meouch up in his arms, he finally left his room, made his way back out to his living room, Hogan underfoot.

And there was a fairy on his coffee table. Waiting for him, presumably. Taller than his first appearance, lanky like a teenager, still blue, wings will protruding from his back. He was… projecting, hovering right over the marimo ball at the bottom of the water. He was sitting with his legs crossed.

Sung sat on the couch, Meouch planted on his lap and getting his cheeks scratched. Hogan stayed on the floor.

Phobos had antennas.

“...Were you out like this when I got home?” Sung asked slowly. He really couldn’t remember; he followed his usual routine and everything outside of that was a blur.

Phobos shrugged. _iunno_

“You’re so helpful.”

Phobos stood, and it was like he skipped frames in his animation; Sung couldn’t quite catch all the little in between motions, just the main points between sitting and standing. Something made Sung hold his hand out, palm up, much to Meouch’s chagrin, offering something to Phobos. Phobos took the offer and walked across the empty air from the top of the tank to Sung’s palm.

His footsteps didn’t feel like much of anything. Sung knew Phobos was standing there, but he wouldn’t be so sure if he shut his eyes. He didn’t dare do that; seemed dangerous to shut one’s eyes around a fairy, whether it fed off one’s love or not.

It was like all the noise got sucked out of the room when Phobos smiled. Because it wasn’t Phobos’ face smiling up at Sung.

It was Celia’s.

Her face on the fairy’s body, smiling at Sung the same way she did earlier that day. Closed mouth, the right curve and high point of her cheek, every single crease around her eyes.

It made Sung’s stomach flip. Kind of like when he saw that face earlier, but backwards. The other way, a different feeling. It made him clammy, and Phobos flickered back to the coffee table just before Sung clenched his hand into a fist.

That probably wasn’t good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi if you didnt get it bellamy is bombus thanks


	5. aggrandizement

It was going to be fine. Just fine, Sung kept telling himself.

He’d been pacing around his house all afternoon, nearly all day, tidying up, trying to just do anything to keep himself calm, he couldn’t sit still. He’d work his hands together, touch his face too much, repeat to himself that  _ it was fine _ .

Celia was coming over. They were hanging out. Like they were friends-- they  _ were _ friends, not  _ like _ friends, they were, and hanging out and watching a movie and splitting a six pack was a normal friend thing to do.

Something about constantly reminding himself of that felt scummy.

Picking out an outfit helped soothe his nerves-- well, no, not exactly. Instead it made him worry that he was perhaps dressed too well for something so casual, and that his casual clothes weren’t so much comfy but sloppy, but at least this inner monologue didn’t gross him out.

Bold colours but cozy fabrics, and he hoped she wouldn’t notice his pants were technically jeggings.

The sudden jolt he felt when there was a knock at the door, he could trick himself into thinking it was because he forgot. 

He ran a hand through his hair before opening the door, wondering if maybe he should’ve straightened it.

There she was, in a near identical outfit. A thicker cardigan than him, maybe. Her hair was half up in a little ponytail, her ears sticking out. Grinning, like always, as she hefted the case of beer up into Sung’s line of sight.

“Celia,” he said, stepping aside to let her in, “That’s more than six.”

“They were sold out,” she explained. She set the case down, leaned against it as she took her shoes off. She seemed fully intent on carrying it all the way in and to his fridge, but once she looked up, she gasped, “oh!” and went across the living room, to his couch. “I like that.”

He’d added some shelves over the back of the couch, filling them with some books (music theory, biographies, a few interesting textbooks from college), knick-knacks (candles, tiny sculptures, a geode), and Phobos’ tank. It was his project for the last two weekends.

“Thanks,” he said, “I should’ve painted it before I put it all together, but--”

“No,” she cut him off, “It’s perfect.”

He quickly distracted himself by taking the case of beer, bringing it to the fridge, letting Celia inspect the shelf. She’d pick up things, turn them over, scan the back of books, but finally settled on staring at the glass bowl, turned completely around at the far arm of the couch. He came back, put his hands on the other arm, a comfortable distance away.

“It doesn’t really grow much, does it?”

“What, Phobos?” Celia nodded, transfixed by the ball submerged in the water. “Yeah, not really. When I uh, bought it, they said it only grows like, a centimeter a year, if I'm lucky.”

Her fingers touched the glass, and a slow smile stretched across her lips. “I think it’d like a bigger tank.”

They were distracted from that as a knock pounded on the door; Celia had been in charge of drinks, so Sung had ordered food.

Paying and passing food around, they were finally settled, coffee table pulled close and laptop open on it. They bickered a little, on what to watch; they’d narrowed it down to a handful movies, and just needed to refine the order. Everything decided and ready, Celia shot up, remembering the drinks in the fridge and, since she was up, got them.

Finally, finally they settled.

It was a horror movie; about 10 years old, and gloriously bad. Something to laugh at, to talk over.

Sung ate, absorbed in that and the movie, and not the way that Celia downed a beer and rapidly cracked open a second one before starting to nibble on her food. She slid the take-out container between them, leaned over, just a hair away from leaning her head on his shoulder.

They made jokes as they watched, Celia only moving away to put her can on the table, coming back shoulder to shoulder with Sung. She finished her food, starting eating Sung’s until he moved it to the table as well, coming back to that comforting contact. 

He wasn’t intending to actually fall into the plot of the movie, but it happened. Maybe it was for the best. He wasn’t so focused on Celia, and how she kept fidgeting. Her hand going up, to her head, waving at the shelving behind her. How she almost chuckled, muttered, “cat’s playing with my hair,” before turning to pull the offender onto her lap.

He absolutely noticed how she shrieked and fell to the floor with a painful thud.

“ANDY,” she hollered, grabbing onto his leg, and he turned and looked.

Phobos was hovering over the shelving, lounging, emitting a soft blue light. He was bigger now-- if he were standing, he’d have been taller than Andrew, maybe even Celia. His hand was where Celia’s head had been, and he looked absolutely perplexed at her reaction.

“Jeez,” Sung exhaled, “you got big, didn’t’cha.”

* * *

 

Sung always tried to have some kind of capital P project on Sundays. Like deep cleaning his house. Or taking the cats out on a walk. Or, as he was trying to hold a measuring tape up to Phobos’ glass bowl, getting Phobos a bigger living space.

It had been going through his mind for a while, and Celia saying it last time she was over kind of kicked his ass in gear. It spurred him into researching what the prime environment was for a marimo to live in, and then deciding to metaphorically blow it out of the water. 

And then being confident that if it was literal, Phobos would likely survive for at least a couple days before drying out.

The tank had been sparsely decorated before; just a layer of large rocks on the bottom. It was all that fit, the bowl barely being two gallons. It was also the bowl he’d bought Phobos in, and Sung was sure he’d appreciate the move. 

He had plans; a larger tank, something around five gallons, and a pump to keep the water moving, to keep Phobos from flattening out. Prettier rocks in varying sizes, plants, and, if he could find it and justify it to himself, a gaudy fake treasure chest. 

Only the best.

In a move he knew was futile, he went to a few flower shops to find his desired tank. That didn’t stop him from being annoyed they didn’t have a single thing he was looking for. 

Well, no, there were some single things. They’d both had a good selection of water plants, and he’d taken pictures, written notes, in an effort to remember them. They weren’t a priority, however. The priority was what drove him to a pet store, the tinkling bell announcing his entrance.

“Hey there!” someone immediately called. Sung glanced around before finding their movement; a teenager, wearing a uniform polo with the shop’s logo embroidered on it, lanyard covered with buttons and pins. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Yeah, actually,” Sung replied as he stepped in. “I need, like, a five gallon tank? Something small.”

“That’s right over here!” They were chipper, leading him across the small store to a wall of boxes, display tanks high up. Both of them craned their necks upwards, the employee pointing towards two tanks on the end. “These are the smallest tanks we stock. That square one is five gallons, and the one next to it is about seven.” It was endearing, how chipper they were, the enthusiasm they had for this job. “What kind of fish is it for?”

“Oh, no.” Sung shook his head, looking back to the boxes, reading the sizes. “It’s for algae.”

It had been a long time since Sung had a customer knock him on his ass; it was nice to see from the other side of it, especially for something he thought was so benign. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling, at this kid’s ill hidden look of complete bewilderment. 

The stumble at the start was just that. Soon enough he was on his way with a lovely square tank that was sure to dwarf Phobos, a gentle pump to keep the water flowing, and some gorgeous glass stones that let the light through in such an enchanting way. He’d even gotten some fake plants, and held back on the urge to get the gaudy, obviously fake neons ones, leaving with nearly convincing ones.

Carrying all that up to his apartment was a trial, and he passed it. Excitement got the better of him, and he started setting it all up as soon as he was home, right in the center of his coffee table. He wanted to get a new end table to set it all up on, somewhere appropriately far from the windows, but then a thought weaseled its way into his head, a little bit of research he read, that it was a good idea to let the water sit for a day or so, and, well.

Thankfully it didn’t take long to get it all set up the way he wanted. Get it as aesthetically pleasing as possible, before then figuring out how to get all the water in. He elected his juice pitcher for the job, downing the last of the iced tea he made, then washing it, taste still in his mouth. 

The last of the water poured in, he flicked on the pump, sat on the floor and just watched.

The slow motion of the water, glass stones glimmering, fake plant leaves swaying, a mesh top that clicked on, keeping the cats out.

His shoulders slumped. He leaned back against the couch, something worked out of his body, his brain now. Next weekend he’d get a new table for this- for him, for Phobos. He could lift the tank on his own, he was pretty sure. He let his head fall back, stared up at the ceiling.

“Welcome home, Phobos,” he called out.

* * *

 

Normally, Sung didn't hang out with people outside of work. He was thinking about that the whole night; it wasn’t normal for him to agree to go out after work, to rush home and feed the cats and change and drop off his car and take a cab  _ just in case _ . It wasn’t common for Celia to have drinks with their coworkers either, and as much as it was a good call, also abnormal for her to volunteer to drive people home.

Which is how it was well past midnight and he was resisting the urge to curl up in her passenger seat. They were dropping off the last of their coworkers, and he was as bubbly as the beer he’d been having. He was warm, tired, but in a good way. In a cozy way. In a way where he was rambling, not a drunken tirade, just a very tipsy conversation with a very sober counterpart.

He wasn’t sure what he said exactly that set her off. Some bit of gossip, maybe, about a pair of coworkers that seemed to be really close that night.

“I don’t get how people can do that.” He could hear her grimace. “Like, you  _ work _ together. You see each other ev-uh-ree-day. It’s so schoolyard, y’know?” Celia asked, but didn’t pause for an answer. “It’s so… uncouth. And we all know dating coworkers just leads to disaster, anyone thinking they’re gonna avoid that is just--” She cut herself off, deep frown on her face. “Whatever,” she mumbled, “it’s stupid.”

“Yeah,” Sung mumbled, leaning hard against the door, looking out the window. He wrapped an arm around his middle, trying to soothe the way it churned.

When she dropped him off, she barely fussed, trusting him when he said he could make it inside just fine. He heard her car idling in the lot as he went up the stairs, didn’t hear her car pull out until he was at the door. 

He leaned his head against the wood, key in hand. “Stupid,” he muttered, voice cracking. He sniffled, sighed, wiped his eyes, nose, off on the back of his hand and then let himself in. 

He hated the way he kept sniveling as he came in, all that tipsy joy drained out of him, living room cast in an eerie light. Like the light from a TV, flickering out into an empty room. Mechanically, he followed his usual routine; washing up, taking out his contacts which he stupidly left in, then finally changing out of his clothes and going to bed, cats underfoot the whole while. He shuffled, imagining their pitiful meows were not from simply missing him all day, but were feline attempts to console him. He had the bitter little inkling that it was , instead, mocking, but he managed to slog away from that.

Unrolling his sleeves, and he glanced over to his bedroom door.

Phobos. 

He’d stopped growing now, was a solid six-ish feet tall, and Sung couldn’t help to to think about how both Phobos and Cee were taller than him. He was also the source or that eerie light that Sung hadn’t even questioned. An assumption that he left the TV on when he didn’t even own one. 

Phobos hovered in the doorway, watching Sung.

“I’m fine,” Sung said, assuming it was some worry over him being home late. If someone asked, he’d be hard pressed to name the last time he was home past 7, let alone midnight. “You don’t gotta keep… Don’t hover over there.”

His sleeves sorted out, he moved to unbutton his shirt, but was halted by that almost-but-not-quite familiar voice in his head,  _ i can help you _ .

“Uh.” Sung looked down at his hands. He wasn’t that drunk, was he? He glanced up to where the bathroom would be, as if he could see the wall, wondering if he’d left some watery mess he couldn’t pay attention to. “Sure.” He turned to face Phobos, let his hands drop to his sides. “Go ahead, then.”

As Phobos came closer, he didn’t seem any brighter. Shadows shifted in the room, and as his hands came up, there wasn’t any body heat coming off them, Sung could imagine he was the only one in the room if he shut his eyes. Which he did, feeling a button being plucked out of its hole.

They snapped open when he felt a hand on his chest, a warm, solid, presence. 

Celia’s face, glowing blue, staring down at him. The hand on his chest was her’s-- long manicured nails, the freckle on the right middle finger. 

The shape of her, an unreal facsimile of her standing in his room. 

He stepped back and she-- he was followed. A hand came up again, and Sung grabbed it, the solid reality of it shaking down his bones.

“What are you doing?” He demanded.

_ helping _ was the calm reply. 

“What are you- why do you  _ look _ like her?”

It wasn’t really an answer. It probably wasn’t even Phobos; their conversation in the car played over again in his mind. His throat got tight all over again, his lips moved over the word  _ stupid _ , trying to capture the way she muttered it, the way it made him want to disembowel himself. 

Both of the glowing blue hands over his, holding it. 

_ i can help you _

Sung squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to push Phobos away, but something stopped him. Probably the same cowardice that kept him nodding along as Celia spoke, that kept him fanning the flames of that wretched little crush, letting it grow-- letting it fester. Good things, interests that were worthwhile grew, whereas misguided mistakes that would never go anywhere just festered, were born in rot, and it was his fault for being the perfect breeding ground for that.

How uncouth.

How  _ creepy _ .

Creepy. That’s what it was. That’s what  _ he _ was. It tangled around his thoughts, his memories, morphed and stretched as it taunted him, asked him  _ what kind of creep was he _ , what kind of creep would keep pining and crushing for years when he knew, knew well and good that he had no chance. 

He opened his eyes, and took the glowing blue hands in his, forcing himself to be tender, to pretend like he had been that this might be real.

What kind of creep was he? He was going to find out.


	6. doldrums

His face felt gross. Grosser still, as it was pressed into a couch cushion. His phone buzzed on the coffee table, and it might as well have been across the Earth. He could turn his head, face the back of the couch, but that would’ve been too much effort.

Sung left his phone alone, let it buzz and buzz and buzz until it inched itself off the coffee table, thudding to the floor. Then, finally, he stretched his hand out towards it, held it in his palm for a while before laboriously pulling it up to his face.

An assortment of notifications, and about a dozen texts from Celia. His heart didn’t leap in any worry of excitement; that didn’t mean there was anything wrong, that was just how she was, how she texted.

He stared at the notification bubble. The number of unread messages. His phone buzzed again, and another message from her slid down from the top of the screen.

‘ _ Lemme know when you’re up _ ’

He held down the notification, and marked it as read. Just like that, it was as if she never texted him, and he could open Twitter, and pretend he wasn’t a person anymore. He committed to laying as face down as he could, even as his neck hurt from the angle. 

He scrolled, mindless, Meouch hopping onto his back and kneading, pawing, trying to get some kind of response. Hogan nuzzled his hand, got in his face, but not even that could deter Sung. 

Before it could buzz again, he went and read her messages. He couldn’t stop thinking about them, anyway, might as well sate that curiosity. 

Nothing surprising, especially not after that night. She’d actually texted him a little after she’d dropped him off, presumably once she’d gotten home herself. Simple; urging him to drink water before heading to bed, and to pet the cats for her. The ones after that, from this morning, weren’t anything special either, but they still made his gut twist.

They were just normal texts. Like nothing happened. Like he was still her best friend, and not some disgusting creep. It buzzed again while he was moping, staring at her other messages, so he had no choice but to read it right then.

‘ _ sleepy head _ ’

He couldn’t just… not reply. She might worry. Might come over, check on him. Maybe she’d get mad at him, though. That wouldn’t feel  _ better _ but it would feel  _ right _ . 

That little seed in his mind, he put off doing the right thing yet again, and texted her back. A lie, that he was surprisingly hungover, taking it easy for the day. He set his phone on silent once he sent it, dropped it to the floor, and pressed his face into the cushion, everything gloriously dark.

There was the distinct skittering noises of his cats playing, batting toys across the floor. Them licking the last bits of breakfast up from their dishes. A scuffle, and then the distinct noise of two cats sitting across the room and  _ looking _ at one another.

Bothering one another quickly lost its entertainment value, so both Meouch and Hogan elected to pace across their owner’s prone body until he finally got up and paid some attention to them.

Eventually he got up, went back to bed, and shut the door behind him.

* * *

 

Marcus had tried to call him at least five times in the past hour. Andrew stared at his phone screen each time, waiting for him to hang up, waiting for him to give it up. Any time that he wasn’t at work, he was in bed. There was no need for his brother to see that, see his greasy hair, see that he wasn’t doing anything, that he didn’t have any reason to not pick up.

He hung up, and there was a gap of maybe 30 seconds before Sung got a text.

‘ _ Don’t fuck around I’m getting worried _ ’

It ignited a cold pit in his stomach. Mechanically, he texted back. Didn’t even have to think about it, just tapped out a pathetic excuse; he was busy, couldn’t talk, don’t worry, it’s fine.

His finger hovered over the call button. He just said he couldn’t, but, maybe that would make it more believable. Not even a minute, just to say it. To add some validity. 

But he didn’t.

Sung shoved his phone under his pillow, and rolled over. Rolled over to face the empty water bottles covering his nightstand. It pulled a sigh out of him, from the bottom of his lungs, and he sat up, blanket falling off of him. He kept his gaze angled down, didn’t want to see what he was wearing, didn’t want to focus on the room. He knew it was the same sweatshirt he’d thrown on after work for the past few days, and his work clothes were carelessly tossed to the ground, a mess a mess a mess.

The rest of his apartment was the same; garbage bags tied off and set next to the cans that he just couldn’t bother to bring out to the dumpster. It was hard to tell if his feet were making the floor dirty, or the other way around. 

Phobos’ new tank sat on the coffee table, blurbling away, Phobos still in the bowl he first came in. The ball was flattening out while Sung’s other plants slowly dried out. 

He kicked small cat toys out of his path to the kitchen. The little wicker boxes he normally kept them in overturned and empty.

It took all his energy to yank open the fridge. Staring into it, he deflated, shutting it, tired of seeing takeout containers, no real food, another reminder that he wasn’t even there anymore. 

He knew what he’d find. He knew he’d be trudging back to his room, getting his phone, and ordering something. There was no point to getting up, yet he still did. He kept wandering aimlessly around his apartment, the state of disarray gutting him, only for something sour to fill him back up when he glanced over at the corner of the living room Phobos resided in. Finally, he tore his gaze away; he’d rather contemplate the degradation of his apartment and anything good in him than let that rancid feeling take over.

* * *

 

It was an earnest effort to drag himself back to normal. Back to some passable shape of a human being.

It was baby steps. Just picking up one of his notebooks, feeling the cover, the spine, the corners of all the pages together, but not daring to opening it yet.

Then flipping open the cover, fingers skating over that first page that just had his name, the date he started using this book, and a different ink with a description of the contents.

He had to build himself up to actually turning the pages, looking at the last thing he was writing. In spite of the bitter shard lodged in him, he smiled at the misplaced and hasty grocery list on one of the pages.

All in all, when he finally managed to get his keyboard out and on, he still felt like he was taking the easy way out. It didn’t feel as real as the piano even though he was sitting on his bench, pulled across the living room. There wasn’t as much pressure, he wasn’t pretending everything was as it should be. He played simple melodies, his fingers dancing back and forth on the keys, doing scales over and over. Just getting used to it again. Easing himself in, acclimating, this hadn’t rotted out.

But maybe it was rooted in rot.

Stop stop stop. Shook his head. Pushed his glasses up on his head and pressed his hands over his face, his eyes, tried to physically push that out. Breathe in, shaky breath out. Focused on that. The air. The spots behind his eyelids as he push push pushed. Lowering his arms, suddenly stiff, suddenly alien, not his and not listening. 

Sung stood up and clasped his hands around the back of his neck, elbows up in the air. He couldn't do this. Not anymore.

He damn near hit the ceiling at the sudden knock at the door, voice hollering outside it.

“Hey! Open up!” Bellamy.

He put his hands back over his face, suppressed a sigh. Sauntered to the door, as if taking a while would do anything.

“I’m not home, BT.”

Leaning his head against the door, his ear, he heard Bellamy shuffle on the ground. Muttered something that sounded a lot like ‘bullshit’.

Felt him kick the door, low, shaking the wood. “C’mon! I got brunch.”

No hesitation, he opened the door, but not far enough to pull the chain lock taut.

“Homemade or did you buy it?”

It was a stupid question; he could see the plastic takeout bags in his hand, logo of one of Bellamy’s favourite restaurants printed on them. He could also see Bellamy’s strained grin, like he was putting on a show and the audience was booing.

“You know this shit’s better than homemade, man. Lemme in.” 

“I already told you, I’m not home.”

That set something off in Bellamy. “C’mon. You’ve been blowing me off for weeks, at least let me give this to you.”

Sung didn’t realize it had been that long. He tightened his grip on the doorknob, trying to tighten his resolve. “I’m sick,” he lied, “It’s pretty bad. I thought I’d get over it quick, but--”

“Do you need me to take you to a doctor?” He shuffled to load over to one hand, plastic straps straining and cutting into his palm, bringing his over hand up to the gap in the door, reaching for Andrew’s forehead. 

Sung ducked back, pulling the door shut a little. “I’m fine. It’s not that bad.”

“You just said it was pretty bad,” Bellamy countered. “Which is it, Andrew?” Sung had never seen him mad before. He’d seen a lot from Bellamy, he’d seen him put up with Sung’s indecision for years, seen him run the gamut from frustrated to elated to heartbroken. But this seemed new. This seemed like angry. 

This seemed like the last straw.

“Just leave me alone!” Sung spat out before shutting the door, locking the deadbolt with a clunk. He covered his ears, shut his eyes and stepped back from the door as Bellamy kept knocking, yelling. 

A pause, and Sung listened again.

“Fuck you, man.” Muffled through the door, and then heavy steps away.

His hands came back, over his face, under his glasses, a shaking sigh rolling out of his mouth.

* * *

 

Sung came into work that day with the soundtrack of a tired grumble. With a coffee downed on the way there, and another chugged as soon as he pulled himself up in the morning, he was at his third cup of coffee before his shift even started, bitter taste stained into his tongue. Bags under his eyes magnified by his glasses; nothing about this day was going to be good if he came to work with those on.

Everyone seemed to get the memo to leave him well enough alone. Except for Celia.

She couldn’t even leave him alone for an hour, forgoing her emails requesting to talk at lunch (none of which he responded to) and pulling him away from his desk and into one of the small meeting rooms. She had her hands on his shoulders for a good long second before taking them off, large glass panel next to the door allowing the whole office to look in.

“You haven’t been yourself for a while, Andrew.” Her voice was cool and detached, and she was using his full name, ever the professional. He shoved his hands in his back pockets, refused to look at her face. “I’m not the only one to notice, you know. People have been asking me if you’re okay.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I’ll keep it out of work, got it.” He straightened up, started to turn for the door, but she grabbed him by the elbow.

“I didn’t mean that!” She let go of him, clasped her hands together, rubbed her thumbs against one another. She sighed, her shoulders barely dropping. “Well, no, I did mean that a little. You can’t--” Shook her head, looking him in the eye despite him doing his best to avoid it. “You pout and huff around at work, people notice. The people under you notice, they’re afraid to ask you for guidance, and you’re not being the kind of leader I know you can be.”

“Thanks for the pep-talk.” He was dry, all but physically rolling his eyes, holding in a huffing sigh.

Her face contorted, her head tilted. Clearly offended at his tone, that anyone, let alone him, would speak to her this way, but she straightened up. Softened. “If something’s bothering you, you can tell me. I’m tired of just seeing you be like this, I can’t imagine how tired you are of acting like this.”

And it was like the rotten core of his soul leapt forward, fully consumed him finally. 

“It’s not your business here, to know how I’m doing. And it’s-- you don’t have the authority to tell me how I should be acting, so drop it.” He swallowed, the words scratching up his throat. “If you, or anyone else has a problem with the kind of leader I’m being, you can take it to someone higher up, but I’m not gonna listen to you tell me what gossip people have on me.”

He whipped the door open and stormed out, teeth clenched and jaw set. 

Back at his desk, he kept fidgeting. Picking things up and putting them down. Bouncing his leg. Tight and tense from the shoulders up, it felt like his head was going to shatter, that whole conversation come splattering out for the world to see. It didn’t take long before he was up again, to his boss’s desk, just a few down from Celia’s, who he was sure was listening. 

“Hey,” Sung said, “I’m not feeling well. I can’t work like this. I’m going home.”

They were surprised, but nodded along. Agreed to take over customer service for the day, and wished him well.

There was a bitter pit in his gut the whole way home.

He didn’t even get to breath a sigh of relief upon getting home. As soon as the door was open, he could see that his apartment was again bathed in a blue light. It just made him remember, made him relieve all those wretched feelings over again.

“Oh, give it a rest already!” he called out into the quiet apartment, and the light cut like a fuse had blown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know what you think!!


	7. stumble

Sung had been making a slow uphill crawl back to some kind of normal. As normal as he could be, at least. As normal as it was to go to the office gym after a day of work while he had a membership somewhere else, and vastly preferred working out in the morning. So did everyone else, he learned, when he showed up this morning, gym packed.

Luckily, all it took was hanging around after his work day for that gym to be all but empty.

He didn’t realize until he got back into it, how much he’d missed working out. He missed a lot of things in his life, a lot of people, but this was a real dark horse.

It was the repetition; the motions, paying attention to his breathing, ignoring the sweat, that tremble of his muscles. The feeling of his blood pumping, the reminder, the contrast, of how stagnant he had been. 

The run at the end was highly anticipated. At his usual gym, he’d leave at this point, pack up, and do his run outside rather than on a treadmill. However, since none of this was to his routine, he stayed indoors. It wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought it was going to be; certainly better than not, and better still because he picked a treadmill in front of a window, with a view.

He pushed himself to go longer than he usually did, than he maybe should’ve gone, being as out of practice as he was. But, god, he needed it. Needed the burn in his legs and his lungs, the sweat down his face, every thought and worry replaced with the urge to  _ keep going _ .

By the time he was done, the gym was empty. 

Sung made his way back to the locker room, slowly, panting. The lights flickered on as he entered, no one else having been there for a while. He pawed at the lock of his locker, and sat down on the bench as soon as it was open, just staring at his clothes and bag hanging there.

He pulled his shirt off, breathing a sigh of relief as the sweat soaked fabric came off his body. He groaned, soreness catching up.

The shirt started glowing pink.

Sung groaned again, this time with the exasperation of  _ not this again _ .

That glow clumped together into a single pinprick, like a planet forming out of dust, light clinging together and taking shape. It was undeniably spinning as it grew, rapidly getting bigger.

It exploded out, a glowing pink man leaping-- no,  _ backflipping _ out of Sung’s hands, a flourish of sparkle and wings. Landing stuck, and there he was in front of Sung; arms out, grin on his mustachioed face and a ‘ta-da’ surely waiting to come out.

“Hello!” he bellowed. “My name’s Dylan, and have I got a proposition for you!”

“Absolutely not,” Sung responded instantly, no emotion in his voice. “Get back in my shirt this instant.”

The span of his arms dropped, just a hair. His grin faltered. It came back with a tilt of his head, antennas bouncing, and he started to pace in circles around Sung, physical barriers be damned. 

“See,” he continued on, sauntering through the bench, “I’m not like most love faeries you may know, who bond to a certain person or place. I’m one of the rare few--” He started walking up the far lockers, Sung turned around to watch as Dylan made his way up to the ceiling. “--That is summoned by a set of conditions being met.”

“Great,” Sung said dryly, “please get back in my shirt.”

Dylan was right over top of him, staring him in the face. “You wanna know what summoned me? What brought me to you?”

“No.”

He came back down with another flip. Or a twirl. Definitely a flourish. 

“Through a combination of sweat!” He flexed in front of Sung, arms up, winking. “Sparkle!” He floated up in the air, lounging, and Sung could swear there was a feather boa draped across him for a moment. “A heaping serving of adrenaline!” He ran on the spot, a wave of heat coming off him. “And just a sprinkle--” He came around behind Sung, hands firm on his shoulders. “--of longing.”

Sung stood up, stepped away, brushed the hands off him. “Stop it,” he snapped. He turned, gripping his shirt in one hand. “Just leave me alone, I wasn’t trying to summon you. I don’t wanna-- I’m done with you love faeries.” He tossed his shirt into the open locker, hand trembling as he grabbed his work shirt and started putting it back on. Doing the buttons up to beautiful peace and quiet, he mumbled, “not again.”

“Aw, again?” Dylan didn’t take on a mocking tone; he sounded genuinely concerned, the tiniest of frowns hinting to grow on his face. “Tell me who burned you, baby.”

All that got out of Sung was a pointed silence. It wasn’t until there was a feather-light touch on his arm that he whipped around, trying to shove away but his hands just plunged right through Dylan.

“Just leave me alone!” His voice cracked on the last word, and he curled back in; facing the locker, hands in tight fists at his sides and shoulders up, looking at the bottom of the locker and trying to swallow everything inside him back down.

There was a rattle as Dylan leaned against one of the lockers. “Sorry,” he said softly. A metallic tap as he leaned his head against the door. Sung watched him from the corner of his eye, waiting. “I’m not leaving. You summoned me, whether you wanted to or not. I’m going to stay until I help you, it’s what I do.” He was assertive. Determined. Taking on the same tone of voice Sung did at work. 

It was an opening, that sympathy.

Sung turned his shoulders towards Dylan, the slightest swivel. “You still gonna help me when the janitor walks in and sees me talking to a fairy?”

“They were long gone by the time you started your run, sweetpea.” Just like that, he was back to his fantastical ways, feet floating up behind him, lounging in mid air. “Besides,” he drawled, turning slowly onto his back, bringing his arms out in a flourish, “I’m a  _ fairy _ . I’m literally made of magic. No one’s gonna bother us unless we’re good and ready.”

Sung tried to look like he was pouting while he thought about it. He honestly did. 

“How will you know when I’m helped?”

Dylan sat down on the bench, settled. Chin on his fist, elbow on his knee, legs crossed. His wings flickered. “That’s up to you, babyca--”

“Please stop talking like that.”

Palms out, smiling, eyes shut. “Can do,” he said with the smallest tilt of his head. He leaned back, patted next to him on the bench. “So? Gonna tell me what’s got you so bad ba- bro?”

Sung held back a laugh as he sat down. He slumped forward, looking at the ground. Shut his eyes, tried to figure out where to start.

“I don’t know if you can tell, can smell it off me or anything, but I got-- there’s another one, a-another, uh, love fairy in my life--”

“Loosen up,” Dylan admonished, patting Sung hard on the back and then rubbing large, warm circles. “You’re more nervous than a long tailed cat in a room full’a rocking chairs.” He kept his hand on Sung’s back and gently shook him. “So you got another fairy?”

Sung nodded. “Yeah. He’s named Phobos, popped out of, ah, one of my plants, said that he feeds off my love.” Dylan nodded along, letting Sung continue. “That was a couple months ago, and it’s been okay? Like, I kinda forget about him until he shows himself.”

“So then what’s the problem?”

A cold pit formed in Sung’s stomach as he spoke. “One night I get home kinda tipsy, and I get in and just…” his hands were up, making the vague shape of a box. “My whole apartment was lit up in this soft blue, that’s what colour Phobos is, he’s blue. My whole place looked like that, and I guess he was waiting for me to get home.”

Sung stopped, swallowed. He hadn’t stopped thinking about that night, but he also hadn’t thought about it at all. It was a cloud looming over him, threatening to rain down but it never did and he didn’t dare provoke it.

“Uh, so, I get home, and he, like, I don’t know.” Sung brought his hand up to his face, nails on his teeth, trying not to bite. “He looked like someone else.”

“You didn’t recognize him?”

“No,” Sung said quickly. “No, no no no, I knew the face he put on. I know her.”  Something in him won, or lost, and he bit a strip off his thumbnail. “He looked like her, looked just like her, standing in my room there and- and offered.”

Dylan took Sung’s hand, pulled it away from his face before he could start on another nail and held it in both of his. “What do you mean, offered?”

“He started taking off my shirt and said he could help me.”

Dylan squeezed his hand, pressed their shoulders together. 

“And I tried, y’know? I thought, to hell with it, and I gave it a shot.” He squeezed back and then let go, still feeling the pressure around his hand. “It didn’t get very far.” He kept fidgeting now, bouncing his leg, grabbing Dylan’s knee, the bench, knuckles going white. “It-- I held his hand, and it felt like hers, but not. And- and so did the face. Almost but not exactly. We kissed and it just-- I felt wrong. Guilty. Like it was a test and I was failing.

“I just freaked out, I guess. I pushed him away, really pushed him, and I yelled at him. I… I blamed him, I guess, I made it Phobos’ fault that I thought…” Sung shrugged, brought his hands back in close to his body, clasping them. “He was gone before I even slammed the door in his face.”

Neither of them said anything. Dylan, waiting for Sung to continue, and Sung waiting for Dylan to quiet the storm in him.

“That’s all that happened that night?” Dylan asked, quiet and gentle. 

“Uh,” Sung stuttered.

“That’s what’s got you longing for my sparkle in your life?” He was grinning again, and it was contagious. 

“Yup,” Sung answered quickly. “I think, at least. I didn’t just ruin things with Phobos and… her. I think I ruined everything with everyone.”

Dylan’s arms were around his shoulders like nothing, Sung didn’t even notice them there until he took a breath in and there was this pressure around him. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he said, a simple reassurance. 

Sung leaned in, let himself be held, and shook his head. “You don’t know that.” It was a token resistance now. The words spilling out of his mouth were the half made justifications that kept going around his head; something in him invariably skewed, twisted, fundamentally  _ not right _ , that allowed him to even consider such a thing. Something in him that leaked out, permeated his love, made Phobos grow into something twisted and misguided, all his fault. 

There was a shushing, his face pressed into something warm. 

“Don’t even think like that.” Dylan hugged his face into his chest, rubbing his back, ruffling his hair. “Just messin’ up doesn’t mean you’re  _ wrong _ \-- and you didn’t even mess up, my man! You’re fine.” He squeezed Sung, firm and steady. “You’re just fine.”

It was like a string snapped in Sung. Threads unfurling under tension and finally succumbing, a sudden, shocking rip. His knees came up, his body curled in. His hands scrambled to the other form, grabbing, holding on for dear life, and he made a dreadful whine before starting to cry. It wasn’t great tearing sobs, this sudden outburst. It was his shoulders shaking, nuzzling closer into someone supportive, a high pitched whine as he both tried to talk and tried to stop the self-depreciative wave of thoughts from coming out of his mouth once more. 

He didn’t stop until Dylan literally said “there, there,” in an effort to comfort him, only making Sung laugh.

Sung sat up straight, untangling himself a bit, wiped away the traces of tears. 

“Thanks,” he said, unflinchingly looking Dylan right in the eye for the first time. Before he could be rebuked, he continued, “And, sorry for being… like that at first.” 

Dylan grinned, and seemed to stand. He ruffled Sung’s hair again, his effect fading, his solid pink form dissipating. His mouth moved, but he wasn’t really speaking. It was like how Phobos talked, a voice directly inside Sung’s mind.

_ You’ll be doing that a lot now, babycakes. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know what you think!!


	8. redress

He’d worked up quite a sweat already, so it was perfect timing that he’d just gotten home. He made a bit of a detour, unplanned, after work. It was a trial, a test of skills: one, picking out the perfect end table for his needs, two, getting it in his car and three, getting it up the stairs. He left it just outside his door to rush in, scoop up the cats and shut them in his room, lest they run out.

He started to really appreciate it as he brought it in, picked the perfect place for it. Tall yet sturdy, simple and basic, fitting into the rest of his decor. Finally he settled on its placement; next to his piano, where he first met Phobos, out of direct sunlight but still bright.

Sung made an honest attempt at picking the full tank up from the coffee table. He really did. The water made it rock in his hands, a constantly moving weight, and he didn’t want to chance it. Not to mention, the cats were raising hell, making him nervous. He took a quick breather, nipping into his room with them, easing his nerves. Trying to figure out if it was just their yowling getting him anxious, or something else.

Meouch laying on his chest, head tucked under Sung’s chin, and Hogan purring just out of his reach gave him a calm clarity.

After slowly getting up, leaving both cats snoozing on his bed, he slipped out of his room, invigorated, a fresh breath in his lungs. To the kitchen, touching each cup until his fingers landed on what he was sure was the largest one and grabbing it. He set it down as he popped the lid off the tank, struggling with it for only a moment. He was certain he’d bent some part of it putting it together, making it just a hair too tight.

Something about dipping the cup into the water, the fluidness of it, further eased him.

It took a couple rounds of bailing water out and dumping it down the sink before he decided to try lifting it again.

 _Much less harrowing,_ he thought as he hefted it up. The water sloshed, but not enough to threaten spilling over the top. It did, however, splash up onto his shirt, and he grimaced, glad to set it down and dry off his work shirt, cursing himself for not changing before doing this.

As he set it down perfectly in the center of the end table, he finally felt his stomach untwist from the excitement he had to set this all up.

Finally he rolled up his sleeves as he crossed the living room. Neatly, even though it was for function, not form. He dipped his hand into Phobos’ bowl, gently scooping out the marimo. It occurred to him, water dripping down his elbows, that perhaps a smarter man would’ve picked up the bowl, and grabbed the moss ball closer to the tank.

As he headed to the new tank, he held Phobos close to his chest, his heart.

Stood over the tank, and brought Phobos close to his face, lips brushing the wet algae. Wet and earthy, with the crisp scent of static.

“It’s okay now,” Sung whispered.

He dunked his hand in the water, placing Phobos at the bottom on a large, flat rock. Pulling his hand out, he shook the water off, wiped both his hands off on his pant legs. Went back, grabbed the old bowl from its place on the shelves, brought it over just as carefully, and poured its water into the new tank until it was sufficiently filled.

A light sigh, and he left to empty the bowl into the kitchen sink, task finally done.

A similar gesture, Phobos rolled across the rock, markedly faster than the current of the water, with all the contentment of a cat on a sunny afternoon.

* * *

 

Without any hesitation, Sung dialed the only phone number he had memorized anymore; his parents. Not that he didn’t have their number saved, but it just felt right to purposefully tap each number. They deserved that little bit of effort.

Like most of his personal phone calls, he was curled up on his side, this time on his couch. It was only a matter of time, of course, before he got up and started pacing around his apartment (usually once they picked up), but just like the dialing, it felt right.

That little pause as the ringing stopped, and he sat up. Waited a moment, and gave a “hello?”

“‘Allo!”

“Morning, sweetie.”

Right at that moment, Sung realized how much he’d missed his mothers. His mom’s soft accent and brash laughter, maman’s low, calming voice, her level headed advice.

“Did you both pick up?” he asked.

“No, we’re on speaker,” maman answered.

There was a clink of a cup being set on a saucer, and then his mom spoke, “we just finished breakfast!”

“Oh. Huh,” Andrew mumbled, looking at the watch on his wrist. It was his casual, at-home watch, the face on the inside of his wrist and turned so he could read it easier. His mothers were an hour behind him, and his brother three. “More of a brunch then.”

They both gave soft ‘mm-hmm’s, and in the silence, he could just picture it. The old dining room table, nicked and stained from his childhood, brought outside to the back patio when they got a new one, unwilling to get rid of it. Mom’s matching tea cup and saucer, the floral pattern worn off then repainted back on. The chairs, old and worn, one of them with a mismatched leg because he broke the original one a week after his tenth birthday.

He remembered the dry heat of the prairies, and how he never thought he’d miss it.

“Uh,” he started, clearing his throat. “I dunno if Marc told you, but I’ve been, like--”

“He said you were sick,” maman cut him off. Sung couldn’t tell if there was an edge to it, some sort of mother’s wisdom, intuition that he’d been lying.

Maybe he was just reading into it.

“I-- Yeah. Kind of. I was--”

“Kind of?” both his mothers repeated, cutting him off.

“Yeah,” he said, waiting for the questioning to continue. When it didn’t, he still explained, “I wasn’t _sick_ sick, I just wasn’t feeling right. I didn’t wanna talk to anyone or anything like that.”

“Oh, honey--”

“He was worried, you know.” Maman was cut off by mom, and only the former seemed to notice.

“Yeah?” Andrew asked.

“Mm-hmm,” was all she offered, ending it.

It settled in his mind. The implications. Of his brother calling their mothers, telling them he was worried, that Andrew kept brushing him off, pulled back suddenly for no reason.

It settled on his tongue.

“Do you think he’s mad at me?” he whispered. “Ma, do you think he hates me?”

“Of course not,” maman answered right away, while her wife snorted in almost laughter. “Julie!” she hissed, and Sung could almost see her look of exasperation. “Don’t laugh!”

“It’s funny, _ma chou_.” She kept laughing, chuckling. “Love, really? Hates you? For some bad weeks?”

“You shouldn’t laugh!” Maman insisted, and was met only with more laughter.

“You’re always like this, Chelsea,” Julie chided. “Babying him. I’m sure he can handle his mother laughing at him, no?”

There was a silence, and Chelsea, maman, was clearly pouting. A sigh, and Julie, mom, clearly rolled her eyes.

Before she could say anything, she was interrupted by Andrew laughing. Giggles, almost, at the familiarity of his parents bickering over him, both getting too wound up.

“Andy?” Chelsea asked, cautiously.

“I even miss you when you’re arguing.”

“We weren’t arguing,” Chelsea insisted, garnering a snort from Julie. “We weren’t!” she insisted.

“Just discussing,” Julie repeated from having been told that during countless pointless arguments.

“Sure,” Sung mumbled, smiling enough to make his cheeks ache. “Uh, I’m gonna let you guys go an- and call him.” He sniffed, wiped away the few tears that had worked their way out. “Love you both.”

After saying their goodbyes, he kept still for a while. Shut his eyes and just breathed. Let the fear of confrontation fade away.

He didn’t pause to think before he started the video call to Marcus, didn’t even stop to check the time.

The ringing stopped, the screen seemed to freeze, and Sung held his breath. His brother appeared on the screen, and Andrew could swear he’d never seen him happier.

“It’s about time,” Marcus said, a poorly hidden fondness under his annoyance.

“Sorry about that,” Andrew mumbled, leaning back against the couch cushions. “Things have been rough lately.”

“I’m all ears, man.”

His soul assuaged, Andy took that offer.

* * *

 

He’d intended to tackle everything slowly, over the course of a few days, weeks. And for the most part, he was following that intention, tidying up little bits of his apartment as he went through, chipping away at the mess.

Until one day he got home and felt this push. Or kept rolling, from washing his face, putting his clothes away, a stone gaining momentum to keep making things tidy, to cut through the mess, the agitation.

The first thing was the laundry, since he was there. He’d picked up all the clothes on the floor, but he only had the wherewithal to toss them in the hamper, not to sort or even wash anything. He upended it on his bed, putting everything into two piles; things he could wash now, and things he’d have to dry clean. The former went back in the hamper, while the later could stay on the bed a little long, for further sorting later.

He grabbed an extra basket, sorting his clothes further in the laundry room. Home, work, tops, bottoms, dark, light, delicate; the organizing kept him on the right track. The hum of the machines. The soap. He set alarms on his phone, blocking the rest of his evening into 40 minute chunks.

Back his apartment, and it was all just a whirlwind of cleaning. Snatching trash from the cats as they tried to keep playing with it, dropping full garbage bags outside his front door before the cats could even think to tear them open.

As always, he brought out the vacuum slowly and obviously, giving Meouch plenty of time to run and hide (he chose the bathtub this time).

Hogan, however, was intrigued.

He was at Sung’s heels, sniffing this contraption, delicately pawing at it when he got the chance. He sat on it while Sung plugged it in, less biting the hose, and more rubbing his open mouth on it.

Sung braced himself as he turned it on.

Then he wondered if perhaps Hogan’s hearing wasn’t the best it could be, because he didn’t react at all.

Chalking it up to Hogan just being Hogan, Sung returned to cleaning. It didn’t take long to vacuum; just his room, the hallway carpet, the few throw rugs and, what the hell, the couch too. It was entirely unnecessary for him to balance on the cushions, but it filled him with a childlike glee, like he was breaking the rules.

Once he shut it off, there was a single mournful meow.

Hogan had his face over the vent on the vacuum, where the air sucked in all blew out. He sniffed at the gaps, and then licked them, his tongue rasping against the plastic. Once Sung turned it back on, Hogan shut his eyes in pure joy, whiskers being gently blown back.

He gave Hogan some scratches behind his ears as he shut it off this time, and he didn’t even seem to notice.

“That’s my little weirdo,” Sung mumbled before going to unplug the vacuum, put it away, and console Meouch for the next ten minutes.

Meouch in his arms, claws digging into him (first out of fear, then, as he calmed, kneading Sung’s shoulder), he paced through his home, everything finally tidy enough. Not as orderly as he preferred, but good enough. Good enough for one day, for a marathon clean. Enough for him to feel less cluttered inside, emotions going back to their proper places.

He sighed, let his shoulders finally relax again.

* * *

 

Every single time Sung called Bellamy, he got his ringtone stuck in his head. It didn’t happen with anyone else, and any other time he could barely hum the melody. It was only in that specific moment, the artificial ringing on his end of the line morphed into the energetic tune Bellamy had made well before they met and still liked.

He kept humming when he was sent to voicemail, the generic message barely registering. And still humming past the beep, but intentionally. Making up the tune as he went along, nervously off-key vocalizations, trying to morph it into some kind of improvised singing telegram.

A harsh tone in his ear, and he was out of time.

He held his phone in his hand, dejected, lamenting. Leaned his head on the steering wheel; that was the stupidest message he could have left for Bellamy, let alone while he was mad. He tried to run his hand in his hair, but he started to fumble his phone, the bags on his lap, and settled for gripping his phone in both hands, grinding his teeth.

It started ringing and he damn near dropped it.

Didn’t look at who was calling, just picked up in a panic, gave a breathless “hello?”

He was greeted by Bellamy’s great big belly laughs.

“Oh, man,” he said as he was winding down.

“BT?” Andy asked.

“Fuck you still, but man, that was funny.”

Sung couldn’t help but to smile. “Yeah, I-- Yeah, that’s fair.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Can I come up? I got brunch.” The food had been keeping his lap warm, the passenger seat, and he hoped it wasn’t soggy.

“Up?” Bellamy asked, “what do you mean up?”

“I mean I’m in your parking lot.”

“Oh, you don’t gotta come up.” And with that, Bellamy hung up before Sung could begin to protest.

He froze for a moment, still holding his phone by his ear, before he breathed again and moved. Put his phone on the dashboard, grabbed the bag of breakfast food off the passenger seat and onto the center console, trying not to hit the coffees in the cupholders.

He hadn’t really planned how he was going to carry this all up, so it was probably fine. This was new, uncharted territory; he’d never seen Bellamy angry, let alone at him, so he didn’t know what to expect from Bellamy forgiving him.

The sound of the passenger door opening startled him. In one fluid, perfect motion, no awkwardness at all, Bellamy came across the front seat, embracing Sung. Solid. Warm.

“I missed you, man.”

Andrew hugged back as best he could, just grabbing Bellamy’s arm in front of him. He smelled like handsoap, Andy noticed, as he pulled back and settled in the passenger seat.

“I missed you too,” Sung said, gazing down. “I-- I’m sorry. I was down and avoiding everyone, and I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry. I should’ve, like, talked to you about it, but…”

“Dude,” Bellamy cut in, “I get it. Shit’s hard, especially when you’re in the thick of it.” He was also avoiding eye contact, diving into the bags, picking and choosing his brunch selections. “But you’re not now. So tell me about it.”

Sung drummed his fingers on the bottom of the steering wheel. Grabbed his coffee and brought the straw to his lips just to chew on it. “...You love me, yeah?”

“You know I do, man!”

Sung hummed. “Could you say it?”

A hand at the back of his head, ruffling his hair, and he turned to look. A smile. A little bit of stubble. “I love you, man. No matter what.”

Sung returned that smile, squinting like a cat. “Thanks,” he said, “it’s hard to remember sometimes.” He swallowed, pressed the tip of his tongue against his tooth, trying to keep from biting. “This isn’t gonna… you’re gonna wonder where I’m going with this, but what do you know about fairies, Bellamy?”

* * *

 

Sung kept yawning during the drive over, trying to get it out of his system. He was a morning person, sure, but not without complaint.

He was as bright eyed as he could manage when he pulled into the parking lot of Celia’s complex, and the reality of what he was doing caught up to him, pumped adrenaline through his veins.

Work the day before had been, by all accounts, fine. They never really interacted much during the day, but he could still feel her avoiding him.

Today was going to be different.

Today was a Tuesday, and he knew Celia popped awake on Tuesdays, her soul refreshed, something about this day of the week special to her, and she did her makeup for the day humming, planning to get breakfast at her favourite cafe by work. Sung wasn’t going to drive all that way and back, but he was sure she wouldn’t refuse her favourite simple breakfast of a barely toasted everything bagel with a generous helping of cream cheese and lox.

Maybe, he thought as he weaved the paths between her neighbors apartments, the fake tulips in the pot were overkill. He’d wanted to get her flowers, but a bouquet seemed like… too much, too different of a message, and giving her live ones would be a death sentence for the poor flora.

Once he reached her door, he decided it was too late. He had to commit to it now, and he knocked like he always did, forgetting like always that she had a doorbell.

The door swung open after a minute.

A faded baggy shirt, shorts with an untied drawstring. Her hair was pushed back with a fluffy headband, tips of her bangs sticking up at the back of it, her face in the flat looking part of her makeup routine, just the foundation on.

Eyes wide in surprise.

“I’m here to say sorry,” Sung said right away. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that, and I shouldn’t have been acting like that at work.” He held out his offerings, willing his hands to stay steady. “I… I come bearing gifts, to make up for being such a jackass.”

She took the tulips first; poked the dirt, pulled the petals back with the pointed tip of her nail. They were silk flowers, bright yellow with streaks of orange. He’d glued and tied them together, stuck them into a cardboard base wedged into the clay pot and poured dirt on top.

“I dunno if this is enough for my forgiveness, Mr. Sung.” Celia didn’t have the rasp of sleep on her voice, just the sing-song intonation of teasing, notes of a smile threatening to come about. “What’s that?” she asked, nodding her head at the wrapped bagel he was holding.

“Everything with lox.”

She grinned, took it from his hand, the thin parchment paper crinkling under her touch.

“You’re getting there,” she said, stepping back out of the doorway, “c’mon in.”

Stepping past the threshold was like plunging into a pool; a  sharp citrus scent enveloped Sung, the only light in the house was emanating from her bathroom, leaving the living room a comforting darkness once she shut the door.

Celia’s home was her den. Everything was plush, the colours dark and warm, her clothes tossed without a thought on the couch, jackets hanging on dining room chairs. She kept a livable amount of clutter around, which Andy found a little enviable. There were lamps in the corners of the rooms, string lights around the ceiling, the light switches for the overhead ones changed out to ones with dimmer controls, perpetually at the lowest setting. It was hard to see the floor past all the rugs she had, a patchwork of them.

She set the tulips on her dining room table, next to a bowl of translucent plastic fruit in the center (another gift from Sung, for her birthday), and went to her bathroom, door hanging open and light pouring out, taking the bagel with her.

Unlike the rest of the house, the overhead light was on at its full intensity, aided by a round mirror standing on the countertop, light around the perimeter. She set the bagel on the counter closest to the door, and perched on the stool in front of the mirror. Her makeup was spread across the counter, a small chest of drawers on the counter, drawers only half shut. Celia picked up where she left off as Sung leaned against the door frame.

It wasn’t until she got her eyebrows halfway done that she finally spoke.

“It really hurt to see you like that,” she admitted. “I’ve never seen you like that, never heard you talk to anyone like that.” She paused, leaned back, checked the shape of her eyebrows, leaned back in to tweak. “You’re my only actual friend there, Andy. And I realized how stupid that is.”

He took in a breath, to butt in and say sorry, but he bit his tongue. She’d been thinking about this, just like he had, and it would just be unfair to not let her say exactly what she wanted.

She started on her eyes, soft powders, keeping one eye shut as she spoke. “I thought it was my fault. Because I didn’t believe you about Phobos.” She started to smile, just a bit. “I mean, how could I? Just accept that _fairies_ are a thing that can happen.” She shook her head, started on the other eye. “I kept thinking about it, though.

“It was just a little voice in the back of my mind, you know? This nagging little what-if, and I kept brushing it off. Whenever I get stressed I start daydreaming, just fantastical stuff, anything to get out of the situation, so I thought it was that.”

She’d moved on to her face, bringing in colour and depth again. He couldn’t look her in the eye now, something about them still being half done made him giggle, and this was serious.

“And then he just shows up!” She shouted, shaking her head incredulously. “I was kind of relieved, you know. I couldn’t figure out what was stressing me, it just became self-fulfilling.”

Quiet again as she finally finished her eyes. They were both quiet enough that Sung could hear Celia held her breath as she painted on the liner, quietly cursing as she put on pascara. She pivoted on the stool, facing Sung, and grabbed the bagel. Lipstick was last.

She unwrapped it, spoke to it rather than out to Sung.

“I should say sorry to Phobos. I felt like it was his fault you acted like that.”

He clenched a hand behind his back. Chewed the side of his tongue. He waited until she took a bite, was undeniably done before he spoke, took the opening she left him.

“I told him sorry for the both of us.” Celia smiled as she chewed, and something egged him on to explain. “Got him a new tank, set it up all pretty.”

There was a silence, and he could have stopped.

Could have.

“There is, uh, one thing, though.” He took a half step into the bathroom, just onto the tile, not quite far enough to see himself in the mirror over the sink. He dropped his voice to a conspiratory whisper. “I found another one.”

Celia’s eyes went wide, her mouth mimicked the shape, falling into a perfect little circle. Her mouth morphed into a grin as gears started turning in her head. “Please tell me you named this one Deimos!”

Sung caught her grin, gave a small shake of his head. “Good guess, but this one named himself.”

The way she sat up, put down her food and leaned in, the way the energy between them morphed, he had a feeling he was forgiven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry this took a month to happen, please tell me if it was worth the wait.


	9. ailurophobia

After that first effort of getting back on the wagon, Sung dropped running from his routine. Not that he was trying to, really, he just had a lot of excuses. It was too close to when he had to go to work, his shoes were too tight, he’d had enough of a workout already, and so on and so forth. Besides, he didn’t really  _ need it _ anymore. He needed to outrun what was plaguing his soul, and he did, so there was no need. There just wasn’t an ache in his legs to  _ go _ anymore, and that was fine. 

Which what he told himself again this morning, at his usual gym, electing to grab his towel from his locker and go rinse off. Maybe leave his shoes and socks in the locker, as much as the shower floor gave him the heebie-jeebies. 

The click of his lock, the door sticking shut until he gave a good hard tug, Dylan’s pink shimmering face grinning at him from the back of the locker--

Sung slammed the door shut with a loud clang. Offered a smile but no explanation to his fellow gym-goer giving him a look. 

Slowly, locker door grinding against the frame, he opened it up again. Barely. Enough to stick his face in, block the gap as much as he could with his body. His knapsack was tinged in pink light.

“What are you doing!” Sung hissed through his teeth before Dylan could speak. He glanced over his shoulder, and the person staring at him quickly looked away. “No, don’t answer that,” he said in a hushed tone, “this is not a good time. There’s-- it’s just not good. I’ll, I’ll summon you later, or whatever, but I am not doing this now.”

Dylan gave a sleepy smile, eyes shut, tilted his head, Sung could feel him shrug in acceptance. “I’ll be waiting,” was all he said before fading away, leaving Sung staring into a dark locker. 

Sung sighed in relief, and promptly forgot about it.

Once he arrived home that evening, however, there was a tickle at the back of his mind. He couldn’t let himself be that oblivious, as much as he wanted to be. It had come up in little bits during the work day, Celia would email him and he was certain there was something he had to do in regards to her, or something about her, but nothing obvious came to mind, so he brushed it off. 

At home, however, all it took was the smallest sparkle of Phobos in his tank for Sung to remember.

“Right,” he muttered, undoing his tie on his way to the bathroom. “That bas-- Dylan. That’s what it was.”

That stuck in the forefront of his mind all through his routine, until he was awkwardly standing in the middle of his living room, too cozy of a sweater to sweat in, wondering if he was really about to do this. If he could do this  _ with the cats watching. _

By the time he got Meouch tucked into his bed and too comfy to move for even an earthquake, Hogan had made himself scarce somewhere in the apartment. He’d taken to getting inside Sung’s closet lately, managing to get the door shut behind himself, and just staring at the back of it. He was probably there. Or curled up under the foot of Sung’s bed, serenely chewing the end of his tail. He knew how to keep himself busy.

Sung brought his hands together, a diffused clap, rubbing them together. He had to sweat, he was pretty sure. He remembered Dylan saying something like that, and he kept showing up while Sung was at the gym. 

So he started doing jumping jacks, and by the fifth one was already planning what to do if he needed to be in a locker room for this to work.

In an amazing show of timing, the second Sung started to doubt the efficiency of his summoning method, his chest began to glow pink. Just like the first time, Dylan exploded outwards, a backflip yet again, arms out and up as he landed, grin on his face as Sung stopped. 

He stood there, frozen in place, as Sung took deep breaths, trying to calm his heart rate. 

“So,” Sung said, standing up straight, hands on his hips, “what did you want?”

Dylan mirrored his pose, slouching forward in an attempt to match Sung’s height. “That’s my line.  _ You _ summoned  _ me _ .”

“I..! Yeah, because you popped up in my gym locker this morning!” 

“Same story, my man.” Whereas Sung was afraid to move from his initial stance, Dylan moved fluidly, hand up and flicking back and forth, starting to sway in place, mustache as expressive as his eyebrows when he spoke. “You summoned me there too, and normally scheduling it for later would be completely unorthodox  _ and _ rude, but,” he shrugged, clasping his hands behind his back which Sung couldn’t see, despite being able to see through him, “I guess I’ve just got a soft spot for you.”

“Oh my god,” Sung mumbled, putting his face in his hands, fingers nimbly slipping under his glasses. He looked back up, not as refreshed as he hoped he would be. “Just because I got sweaty doesn’t mean I’m summoning you. Didn’t you have a whole list of--”

Sung was cut of by Dylan’s sudden shriek as he shot up to the ceiling. 

Just as he was about to ask  _ what the hell was that _ , Dylan pointed frantically to a something on the ground, pressing his incorporeal form into the ceiling as snugly as possible. Sung followed the pointing down down down to the coffee table, moved off center from him pushing it out of the way. Down further to Hogan laying underneath it, on his back, participating in one of his favourite pastimes of ‘walking’ on the bottom of the table, back sliding around the floor. 

“What, Hoags?” Sung asked, turning and kneeling down to pet his cat. “If you’re that superstitious, he’s really only bad luck to himself, I promise.” When he stood, he held Hogan in his arms; it was one of the rare times Hogan allowed some physical affection. 

“I cannot believe,” Dylan cried, voice working it almost as high as he was, “you’ve had one of those- those  _ things _ in here this whole time and I didn’t even notice! Didn’t even--” He started to spin, although it was more like rolling at the angle he was at, in some desperate attempt to get further away. “--You don’t even  _ stink _ like it!”

“I’ve had two cats in here the whole time, actually.”

Dylan made a sound like he was dying. 

It was picturesque timing that Meouch came into the living room at that moment; the only thing that could wake him other than a natural disaster, was cuddles being doled out that were his god given right to muscle in on. Rather than barrel over to Sung and demand to be picked up as well, however, Meouch instantly spotted Dylan. Shrieking and spinning at the ceiling and Meouch parsed him as a threat, standing his ground and hissing, yowling. 

Siding with the lesser of two evils, Dylan slid across the ceiling away from Meouch and towards Sung and Hogan. 

Mischief pulled the corners of Sung’s mouth up. He held Hogan up in the air, body dangling, wall-eyed and the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth. Dylan moved on from screaming louder to screaming silently, mouth still open in dread, giving Sung the chance to speak.

“Aw, Dylan,” Sung started in a voice normally reserved for embarrassing baby talk directed to the cats, “don’t tell me you’re afraid of these little boogers!”

He kept advancing, rattling off every saccharine sweet nickname he had for his cats as Dylan slowly moved around the perimeter of the room. Eventually Dylan started making noise again, words of some kind, and by then it was impossible to distinguish what was coming from who. Meouch’s yowling matched the pitch of Dylan’s yells, and whatever he was trying to say morphed into Sung’s chant of endearments.

When Dylan abruptly dissipated, all the noise stopped at once, and Hogan swiftly wriggled out of Sung’s grasp, leaving the apartment in its normal quiet.


	10. inscrutable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tentatively for day 8 of twrptober, au day.

Sung and Celia would carpool together fairly frequently, and this was one of those frequencies. They usually left the office at the same time anyways, but this always gave Sung an excuse to watch the transformation from Ms. Kim, the icy computer wife who solely married the HR department and the IT department by becoming the head of their intersection, into Cee. He’d always be waiting for her at the end of his shift, somebody usually from one of those departments needing her help with something, her expertise. She’d glance at Sung, and wouldn’t acknowledge him any further until who ever needed her was gone. 

Finally she’d stand, give a barely perceptible smile to him before breezing past.

Neither of them would say a word until they were in the elevator. It wasn’t some rule that had been set up in the past, and it wasn’t as though their friendship was a secret. It just always worked out that way, was all. 

Even if there were other people going down with them, she’d turn into herself again, by the smallest margin. Celia would say something without thinking carefully about it, knock her elbow against Andrew’s arm, make some bad pun. 

By the time they got to his car, she was pretty much back to normal. Bawdy jokes beneath her breath, grinning broadly, pinching Sung’s cheek and ruining his carefully done hair. He was only briefly saved as they got in, and she gave one final poke to his side as he started his car, letting him drive unpestered after that. 

He was grateful she didn’t take the golden opportunity as he was backing out of his spot, hand on the back of her headrest in proper form, but someone else did.

It was at the edge of his vision as he looked out the back window, a little like when he’d become aware of the rim of his glasses, a persistent fuzz. When he looked at it though, it became clear this wasn’t something so benign. 

A glowing pink orb in the center of the back seat, floating right in the air, Undeniably spinning.

Before he even fully realized what this was, it exploded out, taking a familiar form. 

Celia let out a surprised gasp as Sung slammed on the brakes, whipping around to look, assuming something was horribly wrong. 

Dylan met her eye, and both shared smiles. His arms were spread out across the top of the seat, feet planted on either side of the hump on the floor. It was the first time Sung had ever seen him ‘wearing’ anything, as much as a manifestation of magic could wear clothing; a kind of suit, shorts ending at the knees, and a blazer with a single button fastened, the lapel gaping open over his chest, showing a distinct and deliberate lack of shirt, his outfit as see-through as his body. 

“Oh my god,” Celia whispered in awe. 

“Close,” Dylan countered.

Sung stared through Dylan in disbelief, his arm still against the headrest. Immediately Celia was taking off her seatbelt, pushing Sung’s arm down as she turned in her seat, half climbing over the center console. “Andy told me about you!”

Matching her enthusiasm, Dylan leaned forward, elbows on knees, incorporeal face a breath away from hers. “Is that so,” he asked. “Tell me what he told you.”

“Can I finish pulling out,” Sung interjected, voice flat with his eagerness to end that conversation before it even started. His two excited companions settled back to where they started; Dylan leaning back against the seat, hands on his lap, Celia buckled back in, hands smoothing her hair, the curl at her jaw. Sung took the proper position again, staring right through Dylan’s head, hoping his face was as neutral as possible.

They were finally on their way, slowly circling out of the parking garage. 

“So,” Sung started, eyed Dylan in the rearview, “is everyone gonna see I’ve got a clear pink passenger, or is this like last time and you’ve got some kind of magical bullsh--”

“Language, Andrew!” Dylan interrupted him, Celia trying to contain her grin.

A moment of silence, and Sung mumbled, “oh, stuff it.”

True to the saying, their well laid plans went awry; he was supposed to drop Celia off but, as was her way, she changed track abruptly, enamoured by Dylan and the way he kept up her hassling of Sung. So he pulled into his apartments’ lot, unlock-locked the doors rapidly as he realized, Celia tugging on the handle.

“Are people gonna see you,” he asked Dylan, turning his head just the tiniest bit, looking more at his headrest than anywhere near Dylan. 

Dylan waved a hand. Made a ‘pshaw’ noise. “Don’t you worry about it.”

Still, out of the car and heading to Andrew’s apartment, It was clear he and Celia worried about it, keeping quiet all the while, Dylan floating behind them. 

Despite all of the everything going on, as far as anyone inside the apartment was concerned, it was a completely normal day. The door swung open, held in place by Sung, Celia walked in first, Dylan coasting in after and Sung stepping in last. It was as though the cats heard her coming up the steps, and were waiting in the doorway, something they never did for Sung but honestly, he couldn’t blame them. 

Phobos came out of his marimo like a timelapse flower, rising up from the water bit by bit, growing to his full size. He floated over, grinning and spinning around Celia, around Sung, not even noticing Dylan. 

Dylan, however, was rearing up for something. He stuck behind Sung, eyeing Phobos with a ferocity. All it took was noticing the slightest flick of Meouch’s tail, and that sent Dylan up to the ceiling, thankfully silent this time.

Phobos, however.

Phobos fluttered down low to the ground, around everyone’s ankles, batting at the tail, taking Meouch’s attention away from the humans as they tried to take off their shoes. He lured the cats across the living room, and Meouch swiped at him like he was one of their toys, Hogan watching and chirping like he was a distant bird.

Dylan and Andy both watched this, brows similarly furrowed. 

“Weird,” they both said.

“Hm?” Celia asked on her way to the kitchen, on her way to getting comfortable, rummaging through Sung’s cupboards, fridge, for something to snack on.

“It’s weird,” Sung repeated uselessly.

“Oh, okay.”

“No, it’s not just weird,” Dylan insisted, his volume catching the attention of the cats, and he got tighter against the ceiling. “It’s weird,” he hissed, keeping his voice down, “but not weird-weird.”

“You’re the one being weird,” Celia shot back from the fridge. She was stealing nibbles from Andy’s leftovers. 

“No, he’s got a point,” Sung said. He made his way to the bathroom, washing his hands in preparation to take out his contacts. “I looked it up. Fairies and cats aren’t supposed to get along.”

Dylan scoffed. “That’s kind of an understatement.”

The humans didn’t seem to care. Neither did Phobos, who continued to play with the cats whom he wasn’t supposed to like. 

Dylan damn near pouted. He coasted over to Phobos, thankful that the cats scampered away as he approached. He grabbed Phobos’ arm, made him face him, and stopped floating, landing solid and tall on the ground.

“What’s your deal?” he asked, voice low, only intending Phobos to hear. Phobos only stared at him blankly, didn’t pull away or answer.

“What’s going on?” Sung asked from his room. Celia looked up from the tea she was making, squinting into the living room. 

“I... I dunno. I can’t see them.” 

That made Sung hurry out, still in his good work slacks, in the middle of pulling on a cozy sweater. He stepped into the living room, and narrowed his eyes, Dylan and Phobos clearly apparent to him. 

As soon as he was there, Dylan let go of Phobos, backed off, but kept eyeing him suspiciously. He turned to Sung, tilted his head at Phobos. “C’mon,” he urged, “you get what I mean, right?” 

Slowly, carefully, Sung nodded. Crossed his arms, put his weight on one leg. “Yeah,” he said. Phobos caught his eye and instilled a guilt in him, so he continued. “But, spell it out for us?”

“First of all,” Dylan started, floating up off the ground again, getting to where he was comfortable, “he doesn’t care about cats.”

“You don’t care about cats,” Sung countered.

“Au contraire!” Dylan shot off, towards the kitchen, eager to keep on the move, lounging all the while. “I care deeply about cats. I care very much that they keep their scheming little claws away from me. Phobos, however,” he pointed, accusing, “look at him! They love him! He’s on par with one of their toys!” He’d floated over to the kitchen, circling and trailing behind Celia as she brought a hot mug of tea into the living room, into the action. He tsk’d dramatically, sat up crossing his arms against his chest and legs folded, keeping his distance.

“Okay, so Phobos doesn’t freak out at the cats,” Celia said with a shrug, settling on the couch, one leg folded under herself, “is it that big of a deal?”

“Phobos,” Dylan called across the apartment, “how can someone summon you?”

Phobos stared. Tilted his head on its side just a hair, then looked at Sung.

“He says he doesn’t know what that means,” Sung said, acting as some kind of translator, the only one able to hear Phobos. “He was just created from, ah, my love, there wasn’t a summoning.” Sung cleared his throat, shifted his weight. “Tha’s what he told me.”

“Bullshit,” Dylan muttered. “We don’t just grow here from one person’s feelings. He’s from our lands, you met his criteria and summoned him.”

“So, what’re you getting at?” Sung asked, turning, closing in on Dylan. 

And Dylan shrugged. He turned, slowly flipping upside down, his hair and clothes staying perfectly in place. “‘S weird,” he reiterated. He seemed to think on it for a moment, then popped back to a normal standing position in the blink of an eye, one hand on his hip, the other on his chin. “I should probably report this, actually,” he mumbled, raising his eyebrows.

“Report?” Celia repeated, eyes going wide. 

“I  _ should _ ,” Dylan said with an emphatic shrug, “but it would be so much more fun not to, an’ figure out--”

“Who would you report it to?” Sung interrupted. “And, what exactly would you be reporting?”

Everyone looked at him.

His face got hot under the sudden attention in the sudden silence, and it made him keep on. “I--I mean, what if something’s really wrong? If there’s someone who could  _ do _ something, shouldn’t we tell them? It-- it doesn’t mean Phobos’ll be in trouble, right?”

The gazes turned from Sung to Dylan, who let out a soft sigh. “Dunno,” he admitted, “never seen something like this, I don’t know what’ll happen.”

“I’m sure it’s just a matter of finding the right person,” Celia added. “Or fairy, I suppose,” she corrected. 

“So who would you have to report this to?” Sung asked again, going towards Dylan. 

“Not anyone,” Dylan said, skirting the issue, floating up again and getting snug against the wall.

“So not one person? An agency, or something?”

“Or something,” Dylan muttered in response to Sung’s hounding. 

“I bet it’s a government agency,” Celia added. 

“They’re called bureaus,” Dylan corrected.

“So what bureau would you go to?” Sung leapt on that scrap of information.

Dylan seemed to curse under his breath, realizing his slip up. That was all he said, however.

Sung scoffed. “C’mon,” he urged, “it’ll be fun to figure this out.”

“Not fair,” Dylan drawled, letting his head fall back, roll back into place, “using my own words against me.”

Sung grinned. “So which bureau would you report ‘im to?”

“We-ell,” Dylan started, rubbing the back of his neck as he drew the word out, trying to stall. “The bureau of mortal-fae relations, I suppose.”

“That sounds vague,” Celia said. She rubbed her finger around the rim of her mug, as if she could make it sing. “I’d bet there’s a sub-department or something.” Sung nodded in agreement.

Dylan made a strangled sigh. “Yeah,” he breathed out, “there’s one just for humans.”

Both the humans in the room hummed in approval. 

“And that’s it?” Sung asked.

Dylan didn’t say anything. 

“Dylan,” Sung and Celia said together, sternly. 

“You can see someone for contemporary matters,” he admitted. Another strangled, choking noise. “I shouldn’t have--”

“You wanna get to the bottom of this,” Sung said suddenly, coming closer to Dylan. He smiled, this light behind his eyes, as he stood in front of Dylan, stretching himself up taller. “It’s a puzzle. A mystery. Political intrigue, even!” He spun suddenly, marched back over to Celia, sitting on the arm of the couch and leaning across the back of it, hovering over her. “This-- this is a whole  _ thing _ now,” he said to her. 

“I didn’t know you were so excited about bureaucracy,” she said, a teasing lilt to her voice. “I think you’ll really need to read those forms before you sign them, though.”

And just like that, they were discussing, planning. Dylan reluctantly joined in, arms crossed, hovering again, not giving info until they asked, offering corrections with an ill hidden twitch of his eye. 

In the middle of it, Sung stopped. Looked at Phobos. Phobos, across the living room, waving his hand in front of Meouch and yanking it away when he batted. 

“Buddy?” Sung asked. Phobos spun around slowly, waiting for him to go on. “You sure you don’t know anything about this? Any of it?”

Before he could even shake his head, Dylan interrupted, “he doesn’t even know cats can’t be trusted.”

“And don’t you wanna find out why he doesn’t?” Sung asked with a point-blank innocence. Dylan couldn’t keep up the prickly front after that, and threw himself into the planning with as much enthusiasm as Sung and Celia, until the cats were crying not at their sworn enemy in their home, but for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you think! chapter 11 won't be out for a while.


	11. beadledom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey are you ready for the condensed version of every single time you had to wait in line at a government office? no you're not, but here we go.

Andrew Sung was graciously sacrificing his Saturday, possibly his Sunday, for a red tape adventure.

Red, translucent, magical tape, but red tape nonetheless.

Truthfully, he still didn’t know what to expect. His mind filled in every scrap of fantasy media he’d ever seen, and he shook his head to clear it away.

It couldn’t possibly be like that.

Dylan had to escort him over. Sung didn’t want to call it a _ritual_ , but he held hands with a fairy while he started to glow and a wind picked up inside his apartment. It felt like he jumped, muscles twitching, and when he landed, he opened his eyes to a disappointingly normal apartment, with a surprisingly normal looking man in front of him, dropping his hands.

Sung couldn’t help but think that he and Dylan looked a little similar, ignoring their heights; he looked almost human with the blond hair pushed back and tanned skin, no longer see through. He’d been clothed when he picked Sung up, a short sleeved blazer, matching pants, as pink as Dylan was on Earth.

Almost human, though, because his ears came to a point, like regular human ears but pinched, and his eyes had this unearthly glow, a border of light around the whites.

Sung started to look around. To gawk. The apartment-- Dylan’s, presumably-- was about the same size as Andrew’s, with the same sort of crisp and modern furniture, but with a cozier feel; magical, almost. It reminded him a little of Bellamy’s apartment, the tinctures on the shelves, but with a distinct lack of a smoke scent. The couch was old and saggy, dining room table new and papers scattered on it with three distinct places cleared for use, one chair mismatched. He could barely see into the kitchen, just enough to see the cabinets were a little outdated to Sung’s taste and that it was tidy, no mess that he could see.

“Oh, wow,” Dylan said.

“What?” Sung asked, still looking around, barely listening.

“You’re see-through, babycakes.”

Sung brought his hands in front of his face. Sure enough, he wasn’t fully _there_. A sort of pale orange, a little shimmery, everything he had on him was the same, to his clothes to the messenger bag hanging on his shoulder.

“Oh, wow,” Sung repeated with the same breathlessness. “Wait.”

Dylan had stepped behind him, looking at his hands with the same amount of awe. “What?”

He brought his hands down, spinning around “So you could’ve been wearing clothes each time I’ve summoned you.”

Dylan shrugged, almost shy. “I like to be comfy while I work.”

Sung frowned, harsh, over dramatic, but dropped it. “Whatever,” he mumbled, stepping back, away. “How do we get to the bureau?” He grabbed the strap of his messenger bag, crumpling it in his palm, then letting it flatten back out.

“Oh, easy,” Dylan said, walking to what was presumably the front door. As soon as he touched the handle, it started glowing around the edges, the slight gap between door and frame. The light dissipated as he opened the door, and what laid outside it wasn’t an apartment hallway, or even a yard; it was the inside of a business mall, various beings in suits, with wings, and not bound by gravity going by. It looked like every hub of government offices Sung had ever seen, just the people in it were different.

Dylan nudged him ahead, and Sung rubber-necked absolutely everything as Dylan guided him along, a gentle pushing weight on his shoulder.

“That car shit is kinda fun,” Dylan said behind Sung’s head, “but y’all humans need to catch up.”

Sung nodded, too busy gawking in amazement to be defensive.

He couldn’t read any of the signs, couldn’t even figure out which way one was supposed to read them in. They all seemed to have that same glow that was around the gap of the door, that was around Dylan’s eyes. People’s name tags and badges were the same as ones on Earth, all different, all clearly from different companies and agencies, reminiscent of walking around the district where he worked, but on creatures he only saw in high budget fantasy.

A sudden clapping strike on his shoulder brought him back, Dylan’s voice saying “kiddo,” both of them suddenly stopping, Sung almost being yanked back.

They were in front of some kind of office, a hulking being with horns and a tie stood at a podium, a wall of forms and booklets and brochures at the wall perpendicular from them.

Dylan let his hand slide across and down Sung, grabbing him by the wrist and pulling him to the shelved wall. They both perused the items, flipping through them, Dylan with a lot more purpose. Sung was still distracted, still not used to his body not really being there, holding his hand up and looking at the sheets through it, down and turning his body, looking at the floor through his bag, his feet.

A flutter of paper, and Dylan was holding something out to him. Sung took it, cautious, but it didn’t fall through his fingers. Almost as soon as he took it, Dylan handed him another, slightly different than the first. It kept up like that for a few minutes, Dylan scanning through names and types of forms, handing whatever sounded promising to Sung rather than trying to hold them all himself. Once Dylan seemed to have looked at every form they had, he took the small stack back from Sung.

“So,” he started, licking his finger to flip through the pages, “we got: report an infraction, magical resource request, memory wipe request, glamour authorization, reset, _and_ error report, jammed resource report, aaaand a mortal travel request.” He flicked back through all the sheets, double checking that that was all of them. “What d’ya think we need?”

Sung shrugged, eyes wide. “The first one, I guess? Report an infraction?” It absolutely confounded him, the amount of paperwork there was to seemingly do anything here. He’d have to ask Dylan later if he really needed paperwork to bring him here, for mortal travel. “Where-- what would we have to do with that?”

“Well,” Dylan started, separating it from the others, starting to put them back, “it’s an omega type form, so we’ve gotta fill out the top half of it, and then we take it to the managing center, and they fill out the bottom half, seal it in an envelope, and you take it to the corresponding drop box.”

Sung was beginning to master his blank stare.

“The envelopes are colour-coded for the box they’re supposed to go to, because each one goes to a different department.”

“Okay,” Sung said before Dylan could rattle off more of an explanation, “but can we just, like, go to the office it’s supposed to go to? And, drop it off there, or something? Would that be faster?”

Dylan stared intently at the text on the form, thinking. “Maybe?” he said.

Before Sung could continue theorizing, Dylan was off, to the front of the office, to the podium. Sung followed after, staying mostly behind Dylan, tapping the back of his arm so he knew he was there, catching the end of Dylan’s question. “--So, I was wondering if there’s any way to speed up the process of this?”

“Oh, yeah!” they replied, much peppier sounding than Sung anticipated. They picked up a pen, started writing something. “Most of those go to the labour affairs office, so I can just go ahead and send you right over. They do break for lunch, but that’s not until midday, so you’re fine.” They smiled, fangs peering out, handing Dylan a slip of paper. “Anything else I can help you with?”

Dylan looked at the slip, shaking his head. “No, no that’s everything. Should I still fill out the form?”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about it.”

“Great!” Dylan said, slipping the paper into the inside pocket of his blazer. “Thank you!” he called over his shoulder, leaving already, Sung close behind.

Dylan led them back the way they came, Sung glancing around because he was certain they were at the door they’d come in at. Before he could question it however, Dylan pulled that little slip out again, pressing it into his palm.

He put his hand against the door, at the height of his shoulder, arm out straight. He pushed against it, motion starting from his shoulder, a quick pump in and out. Once he pulled his hand away, there was a glowing rune where it was, and the light quickly melted into the door.

“Let’s go,” he said, glancing back at Sung as he pushed the door open.

The room behind it was absolutely not Dylan’s home. It was the near silent lobby of an office, with chairs and fake plants, and a receptionist looking up from their desk, rectangle pupils glaring at them as they walked in.

Back home, Sung had no fear of other people, of strange and new situations. He was no stranger to the poorly aimed wrath of a stranger; it was his job, honestly, to deal with people’s anger so his team wouldn’t have to. But this one vaguely goat shaped humanoid made him damn near hide behind Dylan, grabbing the back of his blazer, peering around his arm.

Dylan explained where they had come from, holding up the form that he kept, an air of hopeful expectation coming off him.

It was met with a sigh, almost a scoff.

“I don’t know why they told you you could do that, because we absolutely do not change procedure.”

“Oh,” Dylan said softly.

They sighed again, Sung watched them half roll their eyes, ears flicking, and they asked, “what are you even trying to report?”

“There’s this fairy in the Ovre, a summon like me, but there’s like… He doesn’t know his conditions, doesn’t seem to know about the Outre at all, so there’s clearly something _wrong_ , but it’s not a deliberate infraction, y’know? So I-- we,” he gestured to Sung, “just wanna get a more informed opinion about this.” He finished with what he thought was a charming smile, but the receptionist seemed unmoved.

“You’re probably gonna need an investigation request for, not an infraction report,” they said, turning their attention back to their monitor. “The investigation office is on the third floor of the main administrative hub.”

“Great, thank you,” Dylan replied quickly, turning and grabbing Sung above the elbow, pulling back to the door they came in, rushing back through.

Andrew stumbled along, the pace uncomfortable for him, too fast to walk but too slow to run, being jerked forward with the swing of Dylan’s arm. It wasn’t until they were on the first escalator that he could finally pry his arm away, Dylan determined to keep going.

“What’s the rush?” Sung snapped, Dylan turning, looking, a couple steps up already.

“Sorry,” Dylan said, stepping down until he was on the same step, dropping his voice. “I just-- I got a feeling they were gonna call someone, or start asking questions about you, or something like that.”

“They only cared about getting us out of there.”

Dylan let out a sigh, glancing up the escalator. “Maybe,” he mumbled. “We should’ve come up with a cover story.”

“We should’ve!” Sung repeated incredulously, emphasis on the first word. “Yeah, the half of us that had no idea what to expect should’ve really put more effort into coming up with a cover story.”

“I was busy,” Dylan insisted, trying to keep his voice down. “You-- people keep staring at us, mortals aren’t supposed to be here.”

“Then why didn’t you ever say this was a bad idea!” Sung’s teeth were clenched as he hissed his response, he kept a fast pace, still trusting Dylan to lead.

“I didn’t think you’d be so _obvious_.”

“Oh, you didn’t think!” Sung spat out, almost too loud. “How surprising! At least Phobos has something right about being a fairy.”

Dylan brought his arm around Sung, palm at the back of his neck, fingers digging into the tense little muscle under his shirt collar. He dipped down, cheek brushing Sung’s temple. “Watch it,” he warned, voice low.

Sung looked straight ahead, perfect posture, for the rest of the way to the office, Dylan keeping his hold on him.

It was a much larger office than another of the others they had been to. The entrance was as wide as the others in the building, leading to a waiting area, a podium set up smack dab in the middle of the entryway with someone in a suit and a name tag standing at it, tail curled behind them that they surreptitiously leaned on. Dylan and Sung slowed up as they approached, watched someone else walk up to the podium and get directed inside the office. So Dylan approached.

“Is this where we get the investigation request forms?”

They nodded. “Over on that rack over there.” They turned, pointing, past all the seats in the waiting area. Then they turned back most of the way, gesturing to a ticket dispenser nearby. “Grab a number here, and you can fill it out while you wait.”

Sung dutifully took a ticket, while Dylan went to find the form.

They came back together, settling into seats next to one another. Dylan grumbled, half turned, writing on the seat next to him. He dramatically flipped the first page, then the second, third, turning to face Sung.

“This is like six pages,” Dylan complained.

“Sucks.”

Dylan sighed, went back to it, filling in what he could.

Sung started to fidget. Started to take the strap of his bag off his shoulder, was about to drop it off his lap and onto the floor when Dylan warned, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” not looking up.

Sung stopped, hand on the strap, on the cushy part that was supposed to go over his shoulder. “...Why not?” he asked.

Dylan turned, eager to put off what he was doing. His hands were balled, thumb holding pen to the side of his hand, and then he spread them out in an explosion. “Poof,” he said, wiggling his fingers, “right back from whence you came.”

Sung pulled the bag back onto his lap, rubbing the shoulder it had been dangling off. He resolved to put it on the other one when he got up again, keeping the strap around his body.

While Dylan grumbled over the forms, Sung inspected the numbered ticket, intending to make some kind of sense of it. There were numbers he recognized, but also runes, like the ones Dylan had put onto the door. It was like it was written long ago, a perimeter of purple around the text, as if it had gotten wet and bled. The way it bounced behind his eyelids, however, told him it wasn’t simply ink. He flipped it over, and it was a clean bleached white on the back, nothing bleeding through at all.

“Okay,” Dylan mumbled, shifting to lean towards Sung, “when abouts did Phobos pop up?”

“I bought him in like, March or April.”

“Not the moss ball,” Dylan said. He pointed to a line of text on the form, and it shifted into something Sung could read-- French.

_Quand le phénomène a-t-il commencé?_

“Oh, Phobos-Phobos,” Sung said. “He showed up, like, May. May long, I think.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Just put- you don’t need a date, just say the end of May.” Sung pointed at the form, dragging his finger along the space. He started to reach for the pen, which Dylan moved away.

“I’ve gotta convert it! And you really don’t wanna be the one writing this, kiddo.”

Sung pulled his hand away, slowly, pouty frown stretching across his face. “...I’m twenty-five,” he protested softly.

It took much of the same back and forth before all the fields were filled out, and all that was left was to wait.

And wait.

Every time a number was called, Sung would perk up, looking between the ticket and the screen, trying to decipher if they were called. Soon enough, though, he settled into a tired glance at the stub, bored out of his mind, sure that this was going to last the rest of his life.

In an effort to work out the monotony of waiting, to feel like time wasn’t this frozen sludge, Sung started bouncing his leg. He checked his watch a few times, but it was frozen at 7:32, the time he’d passed over from his apartment into Dylan’s, apparently. He alternated the leg he was bouncing, swapping between left and right, and had a terrifying 30 second foray into trying to bounce both at once. He settled on one, however, having found the sweet spot, where he didn’t have to expend much effort.

Once he’d really gotten into it, Dylan reached across him, grabbing his knee and holding it down.

“I need you to stop that.”

So Sung resigned himself to flexing his toes in his shoes, arms folded and rolling the fabric of his sleeves between his fingers.

He was nodding off in his seat when he was finally yanked up, gracelessly grabbing his messenger bag and clutching it to his chest, following behind Dylan as he got his bearings straight.

It was a little like a bank teller window, but with high partitions between them and the other windows, the business here something more sensitive than money, apparently. All that was missing was a curtain behind them, to make it a truly private booth. Dylan pushed Sung in front, closest to the counter, standing between him and the waiting area, but speaking around his head.

“It’s just an ah, investigation request form,” Dylan said as he slid it under the glass, a mossy appendage taking it.

They didn’t say anything, just turned the sheet around, initialing next to where Dylan had written. The silence continued until they were nearly done the second page, having highlighted, initialed, and filled out varying sections of the form.

“Who is this investigation for?” they asked slowly, flipping between the second and third sheet.

“He’s called Phobos,” Dylan answered, leaning forward, trying to squint at what he’d written, what they had added.

They slid a keyboard out from under their desk, and started typing, looking at a monitor just to the side. They bit their lip, squinted both pairs of eyes. “He’s not showing up,” they said, drawing out the negative. “Do you have his place of residence, or something?”

“See, the thing is, he’s supposed to be from here, but he doesn’t even _know_ about here.” Dylan raised a hand up as he spoke, moving it in circles, trying to gesture to the broad concept of his world. “He- he’s the same type as me, but he doesn’t know his summons, doesn’t know _anything_ a-and-- we’re just trying to see, like, if something’s wrong with him.”

“Something wrong?” they repeated. “What, like a corruption?”

Dylan stammered for a second. He leaned his head over Sung’s shoulder, dropped his voice. “You think that’s it?”

They looked down at the forms. Flipped through all the pages. Reached to the side of the window opposite of the monitor, ripped what looked like another ticket off something, and hurriedly wrote something on it. They slid it and the form back under the glass, pointed further into the office with their pen. “Go on through that door that says ‘administration’, and my supervisor will come meet with you.”

That was that, and the next person in line was called, making the two of them rush over without a second thought.

It was a tiny, separated waiting area, like that of a private office. Five chairs were crammed in, a small table holding magazines and a decorative bowl of glass beads. There were two doors; the one they came in, and one presumably leading further into the office.

They sat down and were, perhaps for the first time that day, not directly next to one another.

A sigh, from one or both of them.

“I feel like I got called to the principal’s office,” Sung remarked with half a smile. Dylan didn’t seem to be listening. He was watching the door, the other one, he’d picked the chair closest to it, looking at the ground for any shadows passing by underneath it, and stretched his neck towards it, listening. The forms laid in his lap, and he held the torn off slip of paper in his hands, reading and re-reading it.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Fuck, this could be bad.”

“What could be? Seeing the supervisor?” Sung asked, bag open and rummaging through it.

“He’s corrupted.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Sung said, taking a granola bar out of his bag and trying to balance the latter on his lap while he unwrapped the former.

Dylan was up and next to him in an instant, holding the slip up, every letter unreadable. He pointed to something in the top corner of it, what looked like numbers written in boxes.

“This here is the code for the department of rectifying.” He pointed to the scribbled words which glowed as his finger passed over. “They wrote that this is likely severe, and this--” he pointed to the diagonal opposite corner of the first, dots filled in like a scantron-- “means it’s a rush job.”

Sung nodded. “So what does that all mean?”

“If Phobos is corrupt, they think it’s far gone enough that all that’s left is just to…” Dylan’s hands started swirling around one another, like he was creating a turbine. He stopped them, held them together in fists, and then spread them out like an explosion. “Poof.”

Sung pressed his lips together, shook his head. “It can’t-- that can’t be the only option, there’s gotta be-- they can do something else, right?”

“I’ve never heard of anything else happening for a corruption.”

Sung stared at the floor in front of him. “Just because you haven’t heard of it,” he said slowly, “that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. There- there could be something else, something that’ll help--”

“That’ll help you get rid of him.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do!” He leaned over suddenly into Dylan’s field of view, scowling. It morphed, quickly, into a childish pout, and he settled back in his seat. He was determined to keep up an angry silence, but Dylan wasn’t.

“Listen,” he started, leaning over, head turned, looking up at Sung, “this could all go farther than you can even imagine. We follow through on all this, even if they don’t disappear Phobos, you’re gonna be on the radar for a lot of higher ups.” He let that settle, let Sung think about it for a moment. “If you’re really just trying to do the right thing, and you don’t have any motive other than that, great, but you need to let me know, because I’m putting my ass on the line, here.” Dylan put his hand on Sung’s knee, squeezed it, shook it, tried to smile but it just came out pained. The light around his eyes flickered.

Sung released the death grip he had on his bag strap, and hovered his hand over Dylan’s. “I have been losing my mind since you brought this all up,” he whispered. “Usually when I freak out about things, I can fix them, or google them to see if they’re real problems, or- or call my moms and ask if they know what to do, but I’m just--” he stopped, sucked in a breath, his words coming out faster and threatening to reach a fever pitch. He put his hand down on Dylan’s as be breathed out, looked at his not-skin, looked at Dylan’s hand through his. The chair through his leg. “This is already more than I can imagine.”

Dylan nodded. Squeezed his knee again. Waited for Sung.

“I really am just worried about Phobos. I’ve always been, ever since he first popped up. I-- I thought the marimo was _dying_ when it started floating, never mind when it fell open!” He laughed a little at himself, throat still tight. “I just want to understand what’s going on.”

“Me too, kiddo.”

They shared a smile, real ones, and Dylan pushed against Sung’s knee and sat up straight again, folded his hands in his own lap.

Sung waited a moment before asking, “you think we should bail?”

“Well, now would be the time,” Dylan said. Before he could stand, though, the door to the administrative offices opened up.

Curled horns, wings tucked neatly behind their back, Sung almost didn’t notice them. They looked at a ticket stub in their hand, identical to the one Dylan had. “You’re the ones with the rushed Rho?” They looked up, forehead crinkling without eyebrows.

Dylan nodded, stood, and Sung followed suit. “That’s us,” Dylan said. As they were led down a quiet hallway of offices, open doors only leading to empty rooms, Dylan looked over his shoulder at Sung, mouthed something frantic. Sung shrugged, held his hands palms up, a gesture Dylan missed as he looked ahead again.

At their office, the supervisor let Sung and Dylan in first, giving Dylan a chance to mouth what looked a lot like ‘what the fuck’ while Sung gave another shrug, an exaggerated frown.

They sat down opposite of the pair, and all exchanged polite smiles. The supervisor laid their slip on the desk, a carbon copy of the one Dylan had. “So,” they started, “looks like we’re going over a probable corruption today, hm?”

“Uh,” Dylan stammered.

“Well,” Sung mumbled.

“Well?” the supervisor repeated, attention focused on Sung.

“There’s this fairy in the Ovre,” Dylan explained, “and he’s not… he doesn’t follow convention. He doesn’t know about this world at all, or his summon conditions, he doesn’t talk to me, he _loves_ cats--”

“--And this is why you’ve got a human in tow?”

Sung and Dylan looked at one another. Sung swallowed, still hadn’t shaken the feeling that he was being called aside to get yelled at. “He said he grew from my emotions,” Sung explained.

They tilted their head. Hummed. Leaned back in their seat, away from the desk. “Very unusual,” they commented as they turned to face their computer, one tap of a button as they sat up again, then rapid typing as they logged in.

If it weren’t for everyone he saw being distinctly non-human, Sung never would have known he was anywhere but home.

“What’s his identification?” the supervisor asked, looking between Dylan and Sung.

“That hasn’t really worked before, so I dunno--” Dylan started, but got cut off.

“Let’s try,” they insisted with a smile.

“It’s Phobos,” Dylan offered, leaning, trying to peer at the screen as they typed it in. They made a disgruntled humming noise, squinting, forehead creasing up again.

“He came out of a marimo ball,” Sung said softly, unsure if he was allowed to speak.

“A marimo,” they repeated slowly, feeling the word in their mouth.

“It’s also called a claudorpha ball,” he added, barely louder. They started typing, careful, slow, and Dylan jammed his elbow in Sung’s side.

The two silently scuffled for a hot minute, and then the printer began to hum. The supervisor spun around, yanked the sheet out, and turned back to face the pair.

“So!” they said, voice chipper as anything, leaning over the page, “since he likely can’t come here, just go on over to the clinic downstairs, and show this to one of the doctors. They should just give you a prescription, and I believe the pharmacy is just next door, it used to be right inside but--” they shrugged, smiling, sliding the paper across the desk-- “what can ya do?”

“Thank you,” Dylan said, taking the page.

“Was there anything else you needed?”

“No, this is-- it’s just a prescription? That’s it?” Dylan looked up, eyes wide, almost smiling. “I thought for corruptions, you know…” He swallowed, shrugged. “You get poofed, or something.”

The supervisor barked out a laugh. “Poofed!” they repeated. Shook their head. “Yeah, a millennia ago. Most stuff doesn’t even get bad enough for surgery nowadays, let alone a complete reset.”

Just as Sung tried to peer at the paper, Dylan stood, apparently satisfied. He shook the supervisor's hand, and they were trusted enough to make their way out by themselves.

Once they were decently out of the interior office, the initial waiting area, Sung started rummaging through his bag again, annoyed that he wasted space in it with a change of clothes, and took out a juice box. He was absolutely ravenous, but it seemed like they’d be home soon.

Maybe.

“You know,” Dylan said once they were stopped on the escalator, “this just says ‘do this for me’ and their signature.”

“Really?” Sung asked, looking at the sheet, finding everything as unreadable as ever.

“Basically,” Dylan replied. “They filed in a file for him but like, barely.”

“Mm,” Sung hummed, not understanding what that meant. Again he followed Dylan’s lead as he looked at maps and signs and office numbers, pondering if he should just drop his empty juice box, and see if it would be back in his fridge when he got home, or simply dropped in the middle of the living room from when he left.

He shoved his trash into his bag before stepping into the clinic. Sung made a beeline for the waiting room chairs, while Dylan headed for the front desk, the longer counter in the room. There was a shorter one in the waiting room, a left over from the pharmacy being nestled inside the clinic. Both his shoulders were starting to hurt, and he rubbed them, bag precarious in his lap, top button open on his shirt so he could get his hands under, the skin on skin contact feeling more soothing.

It felt uncouth; too, well, unbuttoned, for him usually, but everyone was staring at him anyway. Might as well make himself as comfortable as possible.

He didn’t even have the chance to peruse the magazines, not even a glance at the covers, before Dylan was waving him over, a receptionist starting to lead him to one of the interior doctors offices.

Inside the cramped office, and of course there was a single chair, which Dylan graciously let Sung take.

“You sure?” Sung asked, settling in, shoulders slumping with relief.

“Certain,” Dylan replied, leaning against the examination table.

They both went quiet, Sung rubbing his shoulders, Dylan looking over the sheet as if it held the answers to every question he’d ever asked.

“Maybe everyone’s summon conditions is us talking about bailing,” Sung quipped after they’d been silent for a few minutes.

Dylan chuckled, and the door opened. He gave Sung a maybe-you’re-onto-something look.

The doctor came in with a bluster, the same glow around their eyes, giving a fairly bubbly “hello, hello,” as they pulled out the chair tucked into the small desk. They turned towards Sung, held out their hand expectantly. Dylan handed over the note and the mumbled a thank you as they looked at it.

They nodded, hummed approvingly. They flattened the sheet out on the desk, pushing the keyboard back, and pulled a pad of pharmaceutical scripts from one of the drawers, writing out a prescription.

“These are just some drops-- it’s a claudorpha, isn’t it? Lives in water?” the doctor asked.

Sung nodded. “Yeah, he’s in a tank.”

“Then just get five or six drops in the water a day. If you’re going to apply it directly, four should be fine. Twice a-- well, no, how long are the days in the Ovre again?” They looked between Sung and Dylan, until Dylan glanced at Sung, expecting him to know.

“Uh, twenty-four hours.”

“Right! Then, twice a day. Twice a day, for two weeks, or until the bottle runs out. Whatever’s first.” They tore off the script, started to hand it to Sung but Dylan snatched it. “Now, if it keeps up,” they reached into a different drawer, flipping through what looked to be a rolodex, “you’ll need a house call.” They pulled out a business card, handed it over. “That’s another doctor here, that’s all they do. You’re better off contacting them directly instead of us, we’ve got to do a whole run around, it’s a huge waste of time--” the doctor cut themself off, waving their hand. “But, was that all for you today?”

“Yep!” they both said together, Sung standing.

As always, Dylan read what they were given as they made their way out, letting Sung find his way to next door.

It was bright, shelves stocked like any other drug store, with what Sung assumed to be overpriced snacks by the entrance, but he didn’t dare touch any. He wandered the aisles, the rows of bottles and products, trying to guess what they were for, while Dylan marched straight to the counter, got told how long he’d have to wait. He trailed behind Sung, looking at labels, reading some things aloud.

“I thought that was gonna be a repeat,” Sung said softly.

“Hm?” Dylan asked.

“Y’know,” Sung said, glancing back at Dylan, voice still low to match the quiet pharmacy, “when we got yelled at in that office.”

Dylan huffed out a small laugh. “We did not get _yelled at_.”

“Not volume-wise, no.”

Some code was called from the pharmacy, and Dylan grabbed Sung by the bag strap, tugged, and then headed back, Sung following.

“It’s by number here too?” Sung asked.

“You don’t give your name out here,” Dylan answered over his shoulder before reaching the counter, smiling at the pharmacist, getting checked out. When he turned back to Sung, medicine in a flat white bag, he continued, “first rule of fey, buttercup: don’t give them your name.” He smiled, patted Sung on the cheek. “Why do you think I’ve never asked for yours?”

Still, Sung was amazed things didn’t pass through him the way light did. He touched his cheek, still baffled it felt solid under his fingers, felt warm, still had that squish-then-bone sensation when he pressed. They started to make their winding way back down to the ground level when Sung asked, “can’t you just pick any door and make it open up where you need it to?”

Dylan was surprised at that question, took a moment to answer, gave a small, shy shrug. “...I could, yeah, but the one downstairs is the access point.” 

“Is there something special about that one? A, a spell cast on it, or something built into the door frame?”

“No, it’s just--” another shrug-- “it’s just where you’re supposed to do that.”

“Unbelievable,” Sung said flatly, “even you’re bound by conventions that are incomprehensible to an outsider.”

Dylan grinned, patted Sung on the back. “Now you know how I feel.”

As they finally approached the proper door to leave through, Sung asked, “can we just go right back to my place?”

“Of course!” Dylan said with a chipperness. “We can go wherever you want,” he added as he put his hand on the push-bar of the door. The edge of it glowed orange, the same orange as Sung, but nothing really came into focus on the other side as it opened. It wasn’t until he stepped over the threshold, Dylan holding the door open, that everything became clear again. Everything except for him; he felt the mass of his body once more, he hadn’t even realized it wasn’t there, felt a solid piece of human again.

He looked over his shoulder, watched Dylan shift over the opposite way. He didn’t so much as step over as coast, feet not touching the ground of the Ovre.

Before the door shut all the way, Sung asked, “why can’t you always show up like this?”

All Dylan did was shrug in response; the door clicking shut signaled the cats to come out of wherever they were hiding, Celia’s bare feet tapping into the living room. Sung’s eyes went wide, and then he checked his watch although that had been fruitless all day. Somehow, it had caught up perfectly with the time, telling him it was a couple hours after he’d normally provide dinner.

“Oh god, that really took all day,” Sung muttered, trying to wedge his shoes off. “Cee, did you come feed them? Thank you so much.”

She shrugged, arms folded low around her waist, almost hugging herself. “S’no trouble,” she said, “I hadn’t heard from you so I figured you were still out.”

“No, really,” Sung insisted, finally able to set his bag down, fighting the urge to raise his shoulders up. He stepped towards her, then wavered. “And thanks for keeping them company, too.” They shared a look, a smile, and Sung abruptly turned towards Dylan. “You got-- we got, like, stuff, for Phobos.”

“Stuff?” Celia asked.

“Stuff,” Dylan repeated, producing the crisp white bag, just as solid as the world around it. Sung took it from him, spun back around.

“Stuff!” He upturned the bag, the bottle falling into his palm. “It’s, like, antibiotics I think.”

“For corruption,” Dylan added.

“Yeah,” Sung agreed. “Phobos has a magical infection.”

“Hm,” Celia hummed, nodding once.

Sung rolled the bottle in his palm, the writing on it English now, exactly what the doctor had told him. The shine of the text was gone, that other worldly glow gone-- or Othre worldly, he supposed. He smiled, wry. “I hope Phobos takes medicine better than the cats."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please tell me how frustrating this was, thank you.


	12. there ain't no hope for me anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, like, what was Celia up to that last chapter?

It was a bad habit, but Celia always sat in her car for a few minutes once she got somewhere. At work, she’d spend a moment double checking her makeup, touching it up, getting her elevator key out of her bag. She was doing the same thing now, in Sung’s apartment parking lot, leaning over the center console, digging his spare key out of her bag on the passenger seat. She looked into the rearview mirror, smoothed her bangs down even though no one would see.

The neighbors might, she rationalized as she finally got out of her car. The cats would see, too. They wouldn’t care, but they’d see.

She made her way up to Sung’s apartment, key held out between her fingers, counting down the doors like she always did, even when he was with her. Key in the door, turning it, it occurred to her this was the first time she’d been here by herself.

It was cool, walking in. It always was. She didn’t know how Andy could stand it, honestly.

Earlier that week, after plans had been made for Sung and Dylan to try and pursue some form of answers about Phobos, he’d asked her to do a favour. That, since he didn’t expect his roaming plan to cover another world or dimension (he was still unsure of where he was going), if Celia hadn’t heard from him that day, could she not do the normal thing that would follow after that and report him missing, but come to his apartment and feed his cats.

So there she was, pulled out of her pajamas and her nest of a home on her day off, Meouch already weaving between her legs, claws snagging on her leggings when she didn’t drop everything to pick him up.

It was a moment of fussing, of pulling a second sweater out of her bag-- it was more of a blanket with a hole and a hood-- and draping it across the arm of the couch for when she inevitably got cold. Then she finally picked up Meouch, bouncing him on her hip as if he was a baby, and strolled into the kitchen.

She didn’t expect to see Hogan until after dinner.

Getting dinner ready one handed was easier than she thought, Meouch more interested in getting her attention than getting his food early. What she didn’t anticipate was Phobos blooming out of his tank, just as excited as Meouch. He hovered just past the counter, watching. It wasn’t until she finally put down Meouch, needing both hands, that he came closer. Then he shadowed her closely as she set the food down for the cats, marched back into the kitchen to peruse the people food.

Something though, had her pulling her head out of the fridge, spinning around to face Phobos.

“Andy’s told me you talk,” she declared, hand on the top of the fridge door. Phobos was almost touching her, coasted back with a start. He didn’t seem to answer, just stared at her wide eyed. “Are you just shy, or what?”

He reached for her hand, passing through her until she grabbed back. She kicked the fridge door shut, let him lead her. He kept checking over his shoulder, looking for something.

His tank.

He placed her hand on the lid, hovered around her with an excitement. Celia only looked between him and the lid, and Phobos made motions like pulling something up, opening.

“Okay, okay, hold on,” she mumbled, hands skimming over the lid for the switch to the pump. Shut it off, unlatch the pump from where it attached from the glass, then the lid, lift it up slowly to let the water drain out without a big splash. Flip it over and set it upside down on the sliver of space left on the table, and then realize she didn’t know why Phobos had wanted her to do that.

She looked to him and he pointed, insistent. Finger tapping the glass, threatening to prod through, shove the moss ball around the bottom.

“That’s you,” Celia said, still not understanding what Phobos wanted.

He nodded, plunged his hands into the water, no affect. He hands swirled around the marimo, making grabbing motions.

“I…” Celia mumbled, “you won’t be hurt if I grab you, right?”

Phobos shook his head, took his hands out of the water and grabbed Celia’s once more. It was barely a feeling, him touching her. It was the idea of someone taking her hands, the after image of them being moved, pulled. The water around her fingertips had more presence than he did.

Both her hands in the water, cautiously scooping up the ball. It was all one swift motion pulling it out of the water, Phobos’ hands under hers, guiding, an excitement buzzing through her skin, up her arms.

“Ohmygod,” Celia said all in one breath as it came into the air. A wet ball of moss in her palms, the smell of watered plants in her nose. Phobos kept his hands under hers, still urging them higher. “More?” she asked, “up more?”

Phobos nodded.

She went higher in the air, until her hands we above her head. Phobos pulled away, arms folded over his middle, silently laughing at her. Celia scrunched her face up, an embarrassed blush spreading across it, but kept her hands, the marimo, in the air.

“What do you want, then?”

Phobos put his hands around her wrists, coaxed them back down to just under her face.

She watched eagerly as Phobos shut his eyes, dipped his head down, and pressed a kiss to the moss.

There was a thrum of jealousy she couldn’t ignore, it was the only thing in the room, her mind. Andrew had done this. Andrew had kissed one of his plants, and thinking about it made her face hot, made her lips press together, the unfairness of it all bubbling to the forefront of her mind.

She pressed a quick peck to the moss, couldn’t help but lick her lips, taste the dirt.

A moment of quiet. She didn’t look up.

_put me back_ ringing through her head, jingling yet echoing across the room.

“Oh, shit!” Celia yelped. “I heard you!”

_put me back!!_ Phobos repeated, waving frantically, motioning for Celia to put her hands down. It was just as careful maneuvering as getting him in, gently placing him down even as Phobos insisted he could just be dropped. Celia made sure she had a good grip, wet hands too prone to slip, and made sure the lid was back exactly right, everything just so before the clicked the pump back on.

Phobos swirled around her, ecstatic, she could hear him laugh, his hands flicked her hair, her clothes. She still couldn’t quite grab his hands, her fingers phasing right through more often than not, but that didn’t matter anymore, now that he could talk to her.

Her initial intent was simply to feed the cats and get back home, but she reconsidered. She rethought it, strolling to the thermostat and clicking the heat up a healthy amount, and decided that she should stay awhile. Make sure the cats weren’t lonely, maybe even stay the night if Andrew didn’t come back. They’d miss him, they needed someone with them.

And, well, they’d scattered with dinner being served and devoured, so she peered into the bathroom looking for them, and then Andrew’s room.

Like a person using ‘looking for the cats’ as merely an excuse, Celia didn’t look under the bed. She tiptoed into his room, and stood beside his dresser. For a moment, she told herself she really had no reason to be in here. She could hear a ruckus in the living room, a bell.

She stepped towards his bed, and fell face first across it.

If she had the assurance he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, she’d sleep in his bed.

Celia rolled over, sat up. Touched her face, panic rising that she’d worn makeup today and forgotten, then settling when she remembered she hadn’t. She pulled her feet up, crossed her legs, and looked around the room-- his room, Andy’s room. She’d barely ever seen it, all the times she’d been here. His casual watch was laid out on his night stand, only that and a lamp on it. His dresser had various accessories on it, another fancier, more stylish watch. His glasses case was nowhere to be seen, presumably taken with him.

He was so infuriatingly tidy, it almost made her stop liking him.

So tidy, and yet he left his closet door open.

Or, she thought, stretching across the bed, crawling, reaching for the door, a cat had knocked it open and needed to be scooped up. All she could manage was pushing the door open another sliver, and then she flopped down again, face into sheets once more.

There was a dip of weight at the opposite end, and Celia got up as fast as she could, standing and frantically smoothing her hair.

Phobos.

She gaped at him, and he stared.

_i can help_

“What do you mean,” Celia sputtered, “I’m not-- I’m-- I don’t need--” She started to leave the room, stiffly marching past.

A tug on her wrist, weirdly lukewarm.

She turned towards him again as she yanked her hand away, but froze with her hand in the air, eyes wide at the site in front of her.

Phobos looked just like Andrew. Still blue and see through, but it was undeniably Andrew’s face looking at her, his hair, this blank smile on his face, top button of a shirt undone. She let her hand drop, just stared, mouth falling open.

_i tried to help him, too_

His mouth moved just right, just like he was talking, it was a weird blend of both their voices in her head.

“...tried,” Celia mumbled. She had to hold back from putting her hands over her ears, from trying to shake out what felt like water trapped in them. “You-- you mean you turned into someone else? For Andy?”

He nodded, and the illusion fizzled momentarily. His face screwed up, too, too like the face he made at work, resisting chewing on his nails. _he didn’t like it_ was all Phobos offered.

Celia’s throat got tight. She needed to know, but would also rather die than know who Phobos turned into for Andy.

“Who was it?” she finally squeaked out.

And he bounded up gleefully, as close to her face as he could get, grabbing her arms for stability. _you!_ His hands slid up her arms, cupped her face. _he looked like this too, even when we kissed_

“You kissed him? When you looked like me?” Celia asked, voice too loud, dropped it back down. “When was this?”

Phobos leaned back, looked up in thought. Let go of Celia’s face, counted off on his fingers-- he even had a perfect replication of Andrew’s watch.

_he got home late_ Phobos explained, _it was the only time he’s done that_

Celia did the same counting back, flicking through days in her memory, to the only time she could think of Andrew getting home late-- the time she drove him home, after that work party. It was vivid, the memory of him curled up in her passenger seat, his face flushed and pressed against the window. Everything she said, she didn’t think about it then, didn’t think she was saying it to someone it would matter to, it weighed heavy on her tongue now. Uncouth, trapped in her back molars, how he got quiet after that bitter word.

It slipped down her throat, curdled in her stomach.

It was all her fault, she realized, why he’d acted like that. Snapped at her, pulled away-- she spurned him with something she thought didn’t matter, her ironclad hold on her portrayal at work, knocking him over instead.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, just before the front door unlocked, handle clunking open. Sung’s voice spilled into the apartment, a question, aimed over his shoulder it sounded like.

Eager to leave this behind, ignore it, Celia turned, careened the few paces down the hall and into the living room, Dylan floating behind Sung, his shoes not even off.

He checked his watch, and launched into thanking her for being there, and she could only bring herself to shrug, brush it off. He dropped his bag to the floor, shoulders clearly tense, carrying the weight all day. She smiled back finally, wanted to ease the tension in her as much as she could.

He kept on, lively, excited, but she couldn’t follow, couldn’t match his energy. She chewed the inside of her lip, leaned against the arm of his couch, her thoughts too heavy.

She was patently aware she’d fucked up.

* * *

 

It was a short while later before Celia decided to do something with this new information. It was a similar kind of day, quiet and lazy, and something felt off; then from being in Sung’s apartment without him, and now, she couldn’t quite pin down the reason. Something just felt different, something just felt like the time.

Sung had told her once how he got Dylan to show up, and what he said his “conditions” were. All she could really remember was how he stressed he had been sweaty each time, and that there needed to be some kind of feeling, some need.

And, although he only mentioned it once, sparkle.

Which is how Celia came to have put her most over the top highlighter across her cheeks, jogging in place just seconds after, still in front of her bathroom mirror.

The second she considered giving up, she’d obviously gotten this wrong, there was a familiar pink light swirling in front of her chest, over her beating heart. It was a firework bursting away from here, out the bathroom door and into the hallway, streamers of light and glitter coming together in the shape of a man. She stopped just as he fully formed, arms out as if to say _ta-da_ , waiting for applause while she stared, panting.

“Dylan,” Celia said, catching her breath.

His hands cut through the air and landed gently, cupping her face in his palms. “It’s you,” he said, matching her tone.

It made her face go warm, and she shook her head, easing his hands away. As he brought them down, she saw sparkling particles from her face sticking to his fingers. She floundered for a moment, just a moment, but she got ahold of herself soon enough.

“You can look like other people, right?” she asked.

Dylan nodded, smiling warmly, took a half step closer, edging into her space. “Absolutely, sweet pea,” he answered. “Who do you want?”

“A-Andy,” she said simply, the implicit admission of desire keeping her cheeks pink.

That smile broadened. “Now,” Dylan said slowly, leaning away, rocking back on his heels, “I don’t need to know why you’re askin’ me for that, but I am curious, I gotta say.” He gave a one shoulder shrug, leaned his head into it, smirked and let his teeth show. “Please, humour me? Let me know why you need this, baby.”

Celia mimicked his posture, going more to the side, leaning her hip against the cool bathroom counter.

She took in a breath before she explained. “Phobos told me he turned into me, and Andy kissed him.” She stood up straight, looked right through Dylan’s face and to the wall behind him. “It seems unfair to me that he got to kiss me, and I haven’t kissed him.” She smiled coolly, even convincing herself. “I just want to be even, is all.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, the change over starting already. “I can do that for you.” Effortlessly, he took on Andrew’s voice perfectly.

She didn’t even realize the transition started until he was done with it. She blinked, and there was this facsimile of Andy in front of her; a shimmery translucent pink, but his hair and the clothes she’d seen him wearing the other day, his face with his smile beaming up at her. Just enough was right that she didn’t bother to think about what was wrong.

“Well,” he said in just the right voice, the right tone as he bounced up on his heels, “I’m ready whenever you are.”

It took the smallest shuffle of a step and her head bending down to close the distance. She watched him shut his eyes, tilt his face up to hers.

God, he looked perfect.

She kept her eyes open, kept looking, until their lips touched. Then, it was like any other kiss she’d ever had, nothing special anymore. Soft and warm, like any human, and when she pulled away her eyes flew open, saw how he moved for just a little more.

Her hand twitched at her side, an urge to wipe her mouth off.

His eyes fluttered open, fake flowers mimicking real ones in the sun. “Again?” he asked, voice low, almost whispering.

She shook her head, more reflex than anything. “I-I just wanted the one. To make things even.”

“Oh, c’mon, honey,” he implored, coming in close again, peering up at her. “You want more, what’s the harm in indulging?”

Again, she shook her head, faster, hair hitting her face. Her mouth opened and shut, and all she could spit out was, “I don’t.”

He took her hand, both of his around one of hers, just the right size, the way she imagined Andrew’s hands felt. His thumb rubbed hers. “C’mon,” he said again, almost tugging her arm, “it’s not gonna hurt anything. I live off of you,” he brushed her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “your longing, I need this as bad as you do.” He smiled, pressed his palm to her cheek, even had the nerve to smell like the real deal. “You’re my favourite meal,” he damn near crooned, still in that too perfect voice, “let’s both get what we want, hm?”

“I don’t want you,” she said, almost yelled, tension in her suddenly exploding out.

His eyes widened just a fraction, barely showing his shock before going back. Back to this almost smug look, hand sliding from where it cupped her cheek to behind her ear, almost gripping the back of her head, daring to tangle in her hair. His other hand squeezed hers, pressed his fingers to her pulse.

“Yes you do, gorgeous.”

She wrenched her head away, her hand, and shoved him, taking a step back as her hands plunged right through his chest with no affect. “I don’t want _you_ !” she repeated, pulling her hands to her chest as quickly as they went through his. “I-- I want Andy, _my_ Andy, the real one, _not you_. You-- you’re a fairy, just trying to help yourself and trick me. You-- both of you, you and Phobos, you’re just using us, to- to get whatever it is you think you need from us, you’re not helping anything!”

As soon as she spat that out and threw it in his face, he was gone, no trace, no evidence, no sparkle. Celia sighed, stayed wound up, hands worked into fists at her chest. Still tight, she rubbed the flat plane of the back of her fist against her mouth, smearing her lip balm.

“Fuck,” she mumbled, trying to clean it off her skin with a finger. “I’m so stupid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please yell at me for this one thanks


	13. triptych

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we're back to the golden boy

Everything was starting to settle back down into a routine. Sung’s evenings were once again a blissful blur between one and the next, his greatest excitements being his cat’s antics, his most pressing task what to make for dinner. 

He put his glasses back on after he was done washing the dishes he used for dinner, turned, leaned against the counter, and surveyed his kingdom.

The warm light of the setting sun coming in through his windows, the shower curtain rattling in his bathroom, an unseen cat batting it around. Phobos’ tank burbling, an ambient hum of the heating of the building running, water running in the apartment next door just behind him. He shifted his weight, and the floor creaked underneath him. Shut his eyes, took a breath in, and tried to enjoy this moment, be a little  _ mindful _ about it. Tried to think about the weight of his glasses on his face, where the collar of his sweater was, the little bit of dampness still on his hands, that sensation in his legs he couldn’t quite name, couldn’t decide if it was painful enough, almost a cramp, maybe a stretch. 

On that he opened his eyes again, pushed away from the counter and swung his arms. Walked with a purpose to where he kept his keyboard, unfolding it and a small tray, fetching his laptop from his room and setting it there. He dragged the bench from the piano over, got everything arranged and on just so before he sat down. 

It was slow goings, the same bit of melody played over and over, the recording repeated, not quite right, nothing he was hearing satisfying him. 

Hogan weaved around his feet.

In short order, Sung was distracted. His phone out, trying to sneak a picture of Hogan rolling around under the bench; he didn’t usually like his picture taken, but sometimes he’d ham it up. He sat back up with intentions to look at the photos he’d just taken, maybe post one, but he found himself aimlessly scrolling. 

Shook his head, set his phone down beside him. Fingers hovering over keys, light, nervous taps that didn’t make a sound. A twist, hovering over his laptop keys, the same soft tapping that didn’t do anything. 

He picked his phone up again. Refreshed some feeds. That same hovering, that uncertainty, until he finally committed to something, opened up his messages with Celia. 

He was the last one that said anything between them, yesterday just before lunch, asking if she wanted to eat with him.

A small frown pulled at his lips, but his face went back to neutral once he set his phone back down. He made the tiniest amount of progress after, actually made something, recorded something, but it was an uphill slog. Meouch jumping onto his lap was all too welcome, even as he tried to climb onto the keys, a discordant jumble of noise ringing out.

* * *

 

Most Sunday mornings, Sung liked to lounge in bed. He’d make himself some tea-flavoured milk and honey, and take it back to bed with him, sipping it slowly as he was wrapped in sheets. 

He still did that, mostly, but he had to take a detour to Phobos’ tank for two weeks. As the water heated up, instead of his usual pacing, he meandered to where he kept the tank. He’d hung his calendar over it for now, grabbed the pen hanging by a string off it’s hook, marked a P in the top half of the box for the day. He took the top off Phobos’ cage with a practiced ease, setting it down with a lackadaisical confidence that it would not fall from the table edge he perched it on, that he didn’t set it down too hard. 

The bottle of drops was just about half way empty; there would be some left over at the end of this, and he tried not to worry about what to do with a magical prescription. 

The water in the tank still rippled, movement taking its time slowing. 

“Okay,” Sung mumbled as he twisted the cap off the bottle, “time for your medicine, Phobos.” He narrated every step of it; counting off the drops, asking Phobos if he felt any better, uttering soft “I know”s as though he was fussing. He even talked through putting the lid back on the tank, switching on the pump and asking if the water was okay. 

He put his finger on the glass, where the marimo ball swayed back and forth, almost bouncing happily. 

Sung made soft kissing noises, the same ones he made when he was doting on the cats. 

“Thatta boy,” he murmured softly before heading back to the kitchen.

* * *

 

All in all, it was a regular day. Sung got into his usual trance at work; calm professional voice on the phones no matter what was said to him, a near constant refreshing of all the e-mails under his control, nothing out of the ordinary at all. Come lunch, he followed his usual routine of strolling down to Celia’s cubicle, rapping his knuckle on the edge of it.

“Hey,” he said, anticipating she’d turn and look. “You wanna grab lunch?”

“No,” Celia replied simply, not looking up from her desk, away from her screen. The brightness was turned down, impossible for Andrew to see. “I can’t today.”

He left it at that, took a step backwards. She typed, clicked around, almost waiting for him to finally go. 

It left his mind about as quickly as it happened. 

A few days later, it took someone else mentioning it to him. A message from a coworker, after a meeting. 

_ She’s more robotic than usual _ .

It made Andy sit up straight, away from his desk. He gazed across the office, falling on where Celia was. Her desk. Where he’d seen her before the meeting, that morning, almost constantly, he realized, for a time period he couldn’t quite pin down. 

He kept an eye on her for the rest of the day but not in his usual way; not with this giddy thump in his chest, a warmth behind his cheeks, this frenetic excitement of  _ getting caught _ . This went on with a cool curiosity, analytical. Watching, not exactly Celia, but the people trying to interact with her. How she would rarely turn around, people under her approaching and then stepping away. Higher ups only getting brief conversation, something she was saying chasing them away. Her office cohorts, people she’d get coffee with, not meals, would hover by the entrance of her cubicle, evidently subject to the same succinct turndown Sung was.

At least now he knew it wasn’t him. There was also the reassurance that she wasn’t lying; he lost count of how many days Celia stayed at her desk over lunch. 

One of these days, when he was just about over it, just about resigned to this being his new work life, someone knocked against his elbow while he was waiting for the coffee pot.

“Hey, Sung,” they gave as a greeting, “You friends with Kim, yeah?”

Sung nodded. “I am, Grant.” He didn’t turn to look, kept his fingers on the edge of the counter. Being called by his last name, hearing other people’s, it just reminded him of elementary school. Still, he responded in kind. He wasn’t sure he knew Mr. Grant’s first name, anyway.

“You know why she’s taking so much time off?”

“She’s taking time off?”

Sung looked over, just in time to catch a raised eyebrow in his direction. “Yeah,” Grant said slowly, “but not like, a vacation or anything. She’s just taking these random half days, and longer lunches and stuff.”

Sung hummed, nodded, fussed around and poured too much sugar into his empty mug, still waiting. “How do you know that?”

“My desk is by hers,” Grant replied quickly. A moment of silence before he admitted, “...And I’m getting trained in bookkeeping, so I took a peek.”

Sung nodded, taking the finally ready pot and pouring his coffee. “Didn’t know snooping was department protocol.”

He could hear Grant sweat.

“I don’t know what she’s up to, no.” He picked up his mug, sludge of sugar shifting at the bottom. Smiled, tilted his head, gave a quick wink. “Let’s keep this between us, mm?”


	14. lackadaisical

The anxiety scratching up Sung’s back was unending it seemed. Spiders, vermin, phantoms of his own hands pulling at his skin, unrelenting as he hit the end of the two weeks the doctor prescribed, drops diligently dropped into Phobos’ tank, only a single day’s amount left now, not that it mattered.

Phobos was exactly the same.

Sung paced around his apartment, until that was too much, and then he sat on the edge of his couch cushion, bouncing his legs until that propelled him upwards again, chewing his nails all the while, waiting for Dylan to show up like he said he would. 

When he finally did, it was the one moment Sung didn’t expect or want him to.

He was taking the long way home, music blaring as he hollered along to it. Not his usual routine, but his usual was unbearable, and this helped some. He was about halfway home, halfway through a high note, when a burst of pink glitter in the passenger seat made Sung scream and pump the brakes, causing a stutter in traffic for kilometers behind him.

“Easy there!” Dylan shouted.

“Oh my God!” Sung yelled back. He looked from Dylan to the road, to back at Dylan. “Oh my God,” he said again, quietly. “Thank God,” he added.

“Aw,” Dylan hummed, getting comfy, “you missed me.” He reached over, pinching Sung’s cheek, and wasn’t even swatted away. Instead, Sung grabbed it, brought it down to the center console, giving it a squeeze before taking the wheel again.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Sung said, voice almost cracking.

Dylan kept quiet, let him explain.

“Everything is too much right now,” he started. “Phobos hasn’t gotten any better, that’s the only thing that hasn’t changed at all! I don’t know what’s wrong with him, that medicine didn’t do a single thing, maybe it really was a corruption and it was just too far gone for that doctor to know anything about-- I’m out of my depth, and so are you, apparently. I can’t even-- something happened with Celia, and she’s barely talking to me, I can’t unload all of this on her, she- she--”

“Hey, hey,” Dylan cut in, “slow down, buttercup.” His hand was up again, to Sung’s shoulder, tense and tight under his touch. “Breathe.”

Sung nodded, barely noticeable. A deep breath in, shoulders raising, Dylan’s hand coming away as he exhaled.

“Bells is getting quiet on me, too,” Sung finally said. “Not as much as Cee has, but--” he stopped, gripped the steering wheel, squared his jaw. “Maybe it’s me,” he mumbled.

“...We’ll figure this out,” was all Dylan could utter, plunging them into silence for the rest of the ride.

* * *

 

Sung still peered over Dr. Aster’s shoulder, even though he could see right through him. The soft green of his body almost made Phobos invisible through him, the distortion of light the only hint. They’d taken two of the dining room chairs, the doctor sat across from Phobos as he gave a check up, while Sung hovered over the two of them, and Dylan paced (floating) around the room.

“Well,” said Dr. Aster.

“Well?!” Two voices echoed.

“He’s not one of ours.”

Sung and Dylan shared a look. Dylan drifted into the doctor’s line of sight, waved his hand in a way to indicate ‘please do go on’.

“He looks close to how we should in the Ovre, but there’s some anomalies.” He took out a penlight, placed his fingers on Phobos’ jaw and he opened his mouth, the doctor shining a kind of light into it. “His mouth looks very human, first off.”

“It shouldn’t?” Sung asked. Dylan and Dr. Aster seemed to have mouths like him, nothing about Phobos seemed different. 

The doctor shook his head, calling Dylan over, who took the spot next to Phobos and opened his mouth just as diligently. The light shining in, Sung peered in as the doctor explained.

“The back of the mouth shouldn’t exist. We don’t need it here. Your friend here is the perfect example- just a solid stop past his back teeth, just as far as you could see in conversation.” He moved to Phobos. It looked like any human’s throat, just the wrong colours. “He’s anatomically correct to a human. There’s no need for that.”

“Is that all? I thought you could change your forms here, anyway, that can’t be your only--”

“That’s not it,” Dr. Aster cut off Sung. He held Phobos’ eye open, shone the light in. “It’s blank,” he said, “no matter how long or closely you look.” Before anyone could ask, he started to reach for Dylan, then paused. Held his own eyelid back, shone the light at himself as it twitched. His eye went from blank like Phobos’, to creating a pupil, a slight variation in colour to form an iris. A tall oval, not round like a human, but there. He pulled the light away, blinked a few times, and it was back to that blank orb. 

“Under strong light, the original anatomy of the eye should show itself. This one here,” he pointed his penlight to Dylan, shaking it, “works with humans, keeps those out all the time. Bad example.”

“So, his eyes and mouth aren’t what you’re expecting, so he’s not ‘one of yours’?” Sung asked, fingers up and doing air quotes. 

Dr. Aster almost rolled his eyes. 

“You watched me examine him,” he said, “from that, I’ve determined that there are far too many anomalies to just discount as coincidence, that you, a human, cannot understand with a single meeting.” He stood, wiping his hands off on his pants. He droned on as he packed up his things, almost familiar doctor’s tools that maintained their forms when he set them down. “Considering the treatment had no affect, his complete lack of record or memory of the Outre, and the examination I performed--” His bag clicked shut, and he shrugged. “He’s just not something I can help you with.”

With that, he was gone, leaving a single business card behind that Sung couldn’t read. He picked it up, tilted it in his hand, the ink shifting in colour. He looked to Dylan, whose mouth was in one long flat line, a small shrug echoing in his eyebrows raising.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow a week of school and ur gf coming to visit really makes the words flow huh  
> chapter 15 will be out in may, i bet.


	15. sonorous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy and Sung just dance around each other and their lives and problems and wow something else sure is going on

Despite everything, Sung never kept an ironclad grip on his phone. He’d forget it sometimes. Leave it behind. He kind of delighted in disconnecting, in grounding himself in the physical world.

Except for now.

Now, it stayed pressed into his palm, checking it, never out of arm's reach, just a hair away from his fingers. It was messing up his usual stride at work, but what was a handful of off days in years of perfection? 

It was important, anyway; just as Celia started talking to him like normal again, Bellamy was pulling away. It was unbearable, the coincidence of both of them going quiet on him, leaving him to ruminate on Phobos by himself. 

It also didn’t help that he still hadn’t told either of them the  _ prognosis _ .  

How could he, after all? What a bomb to drop on his friends when things are delicate, for reasons he couldn’t figure out-- Phobos wasn’t even what they thought he was, what he thought he was, that’s not something you just start small talk with. And maybe he was still ruminating on it. 

His phone buzzed and he snatched it up, cradling it in his hand. Bellamy.

_ We should talk talk soon. _

Sung breathed a sigh of relief. It was something, at least. Something more than the stilted excuses Bellamy kept giving, more than Sung’s apprehension to push on anything with either of them.  He texted an agreement, and they arranged a time while he half-heartedly worked.

They agreed on after Sung was out of work. About 20 minutes after, when he could’ve been home by, but instead opted to stall, and called Bellamy from the liminal space of his car in the office parkade. 

It felt right to put his phone on the dashboard, speakerphone making the dial tone echo in the car. It levied the awkwardness of being in the driver’s seat and not touching the wheel, keeping his feet off the pedals, keys on the passenger seat. 

The tone was cut off, and Sung sucked in a breath-- Bellamy either picked up or hung up. 

“Hey,” the voice crackled on the other end.

“Hey!” Sung replied, too fast, too excited. He reclined his seat back, licked his lips. “So,” he started slowly, “like, uh--”

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy interrupted. “I’ve had a lot of stuff going on lately, and I should’ve told you at least that instead of just ghosting you.”

Sung blinked a few times. Shook his head on habit. “No, I-- thanks, BT,” he said simply. “I have, too. Like, had a lot of stuff going on.”

Bellamy snorted. “When don’t you nowadays?”

Andy smiled. Finally, it felt like. “Yeah, listen.” He sat up, leaned on the steering wheel. “So I get that prescription for Phobos, right? And it didn’t do anything. So we summon a doctor over--”

“We?”

“Dylan and I,” Sung explained. “We get a doctor to look at ‘im, and you know what he tells me?”

“You’ve got the long lost prince of the fairies in your living room!”

“Oh, I wish, Bells! No, he tells me he’s not one of theirs. And then disappears!” 

“What do you mean he disappeared?” He could hear the grin on Bellamy, could just picture the way he squinted, would lean in with this gleeful glint in his eye.

“He just…” Sung swirled his hands, searching for the right words. “...Just,  _ poof _ . Disappeared. He left a business card, though.”

“A business card!” Bellamy snorted. “Oh my god!” 

It was almost unreal, how quickly they got back into their usual rhythm. How easy it was. Sung took his phone off the dash, switched off speaker and held it to his ear, leaning back in his seat and reclining it further back.

“So,” Sung started, “what’s going on with you?”

A breath in. A stutter. “That’s…” Bellamy started, “That’s not mine to tell, really.”

Sung sighed. Rolled onto his side as much as he could. “Alright,” he mumbled. He wanted to ask if it ever would be, but that felt like too much. He just let the silence settle. 

“Well--” Bellamy began.

“Celia’s talking to me again.” Sung interrupted, wincing as he realized it.

“Good for you,” Bellamy quipped.

“What the hell does that mean, Bellamy?” Sung sat up, still on his side.

“Means ‘good for you,’ Andrew.” The soft inhale of a breath, of Bellamy about to keep going, then thinking better of it. “Listen, I should go.”

“Oh, as soon as I bring up Celia, you’ve gotta run?” Sung spat it out, sitting up proper, hand going beneath the seat and fussing with the lever. “Just ‘cause you don’t like her, you’re gonna--”

“It’s not that,” Bellamy insisted sternly. “You don’t know what’s--”

“No, I do know! I know, and I don’t need to hear it again, not now.”

The phone line crackled. “It’s not that,” Bellamy said quietly.

“Sure it’s not,” Sung quipped.

* * *

 

It was just as he’d gotten into bed for the night. Comforter up to his ears, the room cooling as his legs rubbed on the sheets, the final slowing down of his evening. His eyes flew open as he remembered he left his glasses on the bathroom counter after his shower. 

The last time he did that, Meouch had batted them onto the floor and into the living room, adding them to his collection of toys and scratching them to the point of unuseable.

He sat up, a slow lurch, pulling his sheets off and feeling his nightstand for the lamp. He squinted in the new light, getting his feet on the ground as his eyes adjusted. 

His glasses were on his nightstand, his fingers reaching just past them for the lamp. 

Weird, he thought. Must’ve misremembered.

The next morning, he slept in. Not a lot, just enough. Enough that he leapt out of bed, scrambled to get dressed, to feed himself and the cats. He backtracked twice after leaving his apartment, forgetting something different each time. When he finally got to his car, a moment’s peace as he started it, his first break of the day. The clock on the dashboard told him he was ten minutes behind. 

A sigh. His shoulders falling. A throwaway thought before he started to pull out of the parking lot, hoping he’d hit all greens on the way, that would make up the time. 

It wasn’t until he got to work and clocked in that he realized exactly that had happened.

Much like the day before it, Sung’s spare minutes at work were spent texting Bellamy. The difference this time, however, was that he was bumping up his phone call up from after work, to lunch. Just before heading out, he paused, did a stop-start motion, looking at his watch and then remembered he never wound it this morning. Still, he checked it, other hand going to the buckle to take it off and set the time. 

12:03, the second hand jerking steadily along. He checked his phone. 

12:03.

How lucky, he thought, eyebrows raising and a small smile popping up on his face. 

He made his way to the ground floor; outside the building, through what could charitably be called a back door, was a small office park shared with the other office buildings on the block. There were benches, paths winding around patches of greenery that people meandered through. 

He found a nice spot to pace in, and called. Bellamy didn’t even get a greeting in when he picked up, Sung cutting him off instantly, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry?” Bellamy sounded legitimately perplexed.

“I am. I know you don’t-- you can’t talk about what’s going on, but I should still hear you out as much as I can.” Sung shifted his weight from foot to foot, staring at the ground. He was downwind from people smoking, the smell of that and the plants around him reminded him of Bellamy, helped ground him. “I was being selfish.”

A pause. A soft gasp. “No, you--” another pause. “Thank you, Andrew,” he said eventually. “I shouldn’t have been so snippy, either. I’m just frustrated that I can’t-- I’m in a weird position now, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Sung said, relieved. “Are you, like, congested now too? Like, I can’t  _ make _ anything, everything is just--”

“--Too much.”

“Yeah!” Sung spun around, changing his direction suddenly. “Yeah. Yeah, there’s too much and it’s choking me out.”

Bellamy chuckled. “That’s a way to say it.”

“How would you say it, Bells?”

He heard Bellamy breathe in. “...Aren’t you on lunch?” he changed the subject. “Have you eaten yet or did you just call me?”

“No, I called you right away. It’s fine, I can eat something quick after this.” Despite what he was saying, Sung started heading back to his building. 

“You go eat,” Bellamy commanded. Another breath in, like he was about to say anything. 

“Alright,” Sung said when he realized Bellamy wasn’t going to continue. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“You’ll get to know,” Bellamy said quickly, suddenly, before Sung could hang up.

“What?”

“What’s going on. You’ll get to know. I don’t know when, but you will. I promise.” 

“Alright,” Sung said. He pulled his phone away from his ear, holding the bottom speaker close to his mouth but he couldn’t hear any response. The screen blinked on, and he hovered his finger over the end call button.  “I trust you, Bells.”

* * *

 

Of course his day only got longer. Sung had gotten all the way home, fed his cats, opened his fridge to feed himself, and realised he had almost enough for a lot of things. Almost, but not enough. So he went right back out, his ongoing grocery list opened on the way. Sure enough, onions and olive oil were at the very top of it.

He intended it to just be a quick trip. Grab those two ingredients, see if the hand soap was on sale, and get back home. He was on track for just that, when he passed the aisle with all the chips on it, lined up with the start of the checkouts. 

Sung stopped. Backed up. Stared down the aisle, at all the foil bags. 

He hadn’t gotten his favourite chips in a while. In a long while; he hadn’t been able to find them in a while and had stopped checking. Most places didn’t even carry the brand, and most other brands didn’t make a mango chili flavour. 

He licked his lips. Pivoted. Maybe they would have them in. Maybe. It would make this whole trip feel more worth it. 

They were always at the end of the aisle. He tried not to power walk over, tried not to swing his basket too aggressively. 

One bag left. On the shelf like it was stuffed in the last available bit of space, waiting just for him.

He grabbed it, skipping all the way to the cashier.

* * *

 

Things seemed to be back to normal again. Normal-ish. Sung was curled up on his couch, laptop balanced on the arm and his knee, a warm mug of milky sleepytime tea on the end table. It was the usual time for Bellamy to call him; he’d have locked up his studio for the night, gotten home, and was likely in the exact same position as Sung. His phone started to buzz on the coffee table, and Sung stretched over, tapping the screen twice.

“Hey, Bells,” Sung said as curled back up. He swapped his laptop for his mug, leaving it open on the end table, clutching the warm cup between his palms.

“Hey Drew,” Bellamy replied.

Sung winced at the name, vocalizing it with a groan. “You’ve used your chance this week.”

Bellamy chuckled. “That’s fine, that’s fine. I needed to get it out.”

“Did you?” It was rhetorical, they both knew, and Bellamy didn’t answer. Sung held his mug under his face, the little wisps of steam barely fogging his glasses as he sipped. “Hey,” he said after a beat, “I had this weird dream.”

“Yeah?” Bellamy asked. “Weird how?”

“Well, I don’t think it was a dream.” Sung shifted, sat up. “I think it was a ghost.”

“...Yeah?” Bellamy asked again. “Your place is-- you think there’s…?”

“I don’t know,” Sung replied quickly. “I don’t know if it’s anything  _ here _ or what, but… it was something.”

“What happened?” There was a concern to Bellamy’s voice. “Did you see it?”

“No, no, nothing that concrete.” It was strange. Most of Sung’s dreams, he never really remembered. Just little bits, feelings left over. But this one was vivid, stuck with him days later. “I was in bed, and I just… felt something in there with me. Like, it felt like there was someone laying with me.”

“You got spooned by a dream ghost?” 

Sung laughed, sudden, almost shocked. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, I did.” Bellamy made a noise, similar to the one Sung made just before, of pure refusal and token disgust; he couldn’t remember which one of them started it and who copied it. “No, not like that! It wasn’t bad, or scary.” Sung shrugged, held his mug under his lip, warmth pressed to his chin, and curled back up. “It’s just...” he shrugged, even though Bellamy couldn’t see. “It felt very  familiar , is all.”

There was a sudden clatter, a commotion, that made him jump. 

“Did you hear that?” he asked, setting his mug down on the coffee table, picking up his phone. 

“Maybe?” Bellamy’s voice crackled on the speaker. Sung carried it in his palm, to his room. “Did you drop me?”

“No, no, it was in my room.” The only evidence that something had happened was his closet door, pushed open a couple inches. He stood in the doorway, waiting. He made a soft kissing noise, attempting to lure the culprit. The closet door rattled in its frame. “I’ll call you back in a minute, Bells,” Andy said, holding the phone close to his face, voice low, “there’s a rascal in my closet.”

Bellamy made a soft noise, almost an ‘okay’, and hung up first, letting Sung drop his phone on his bed, stalk over to his closet. 

It was a hunter tracking prey. He took long, silent strides, crouched as low to the ground as he could. His hand on the wood of the door, he expected a battle as soon as he opened it; Meouch, probably, rooting through his dirty laundry, trying to shimmy up the hanging clothes, who would surely bolt into the room once he was caught, starting a game of chase that Sung would gladly participate in. 

He shoved the door open in one explosive rattle, and froze.

Hogan, perched on his laundry, not even denting it, eyes glowing blue. The same blue as Phobos. 

There was no sudden game of chase. Hogan hopped down to the floor, Sung stepping back and out of his way. He just watched the cat making his way to the door, Andrew still and staring. Hogan sat at the threshold, looked back at Andy, eyes their normal green. He meowed, low, grumbling, just like always.

Sung’s phone rumbled on his bed, Bellamy calling him back. He sat at the foot of his bed, reached over and grabbed it, keeping his eyes on Hogan as he answered. 

“Bells,” he said breathlessly. “I got something to tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little earlier than i said it would be! idk when the next ones gonna happen; twbb is upon us, so i'm putting my energy into that.   
> please let me know what you think, either here or at my tumblr, officiallordphobos!

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me what you think!!


End file.
